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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 























































































































































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♦ 




The Song and the Singer 



















BOOKS BY 

pr^d^riel^ 1^. Burtoi} 


THE SONG AND THE SINGER* A mu- 
sical novel of to-day. 

Illustrated; bound in cloth. Price, $1.50 

HER WEDDING INTERLUDE* The mys- 
tery of a man’s disappearance on his wed- 
ding day. 

Bound in cloth Price, $1.00 

SHIFTING SANDS* A seaside story, with a 
most perplexing plot and strong character 
delineation. 

Bound in cloth Price, $1.00 


STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS 
NEW YORK AND LONDON 






# 

































































































mm 



He had not turned a page before he well nigh lost his fingers in aston- 
ishment and delight. 

See page too, 




The Song and the Singer 


A Setting Forth, in Words, of Certain Movements in a 
Latter-day Life : Prelude— Allegro ; Andante con 
moto; Scherzo; Presto con brio — Coda. 


BY 

FREDERICK R. BURTON 

Author of “Her Wedding Interlude,” “Shifting 
Sands,” etc. 



NEW YORK AND LONDON 
STREET & SMITH, Publishers 

C^oyy X. ■ 



THE U WR ARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Cop.es Received 

AUG. 30 1902 

OOPVRIQHT entry 

CU<q, 3o. tqox. 

CLASS <^XXc. No. 

^4 Otoj* 

COPY A. 


Copyright, 1902. 

By 

STREET & SMITH. 

THE SONG AND THE SINGER. 


*0 

*7 



To her who knows the meaning of appreciation 
and gives it most bountifully, 


MY MOTHER. 


THERE is a world that some of us know . It 
is not material , it is not spiritual , as we 
commonly understand that ivord ; but the one 
is essential to it, and it breathes the lofty at- 
mosphere of the other . Its inhabitants do not 
realize that it is. To the appreciation of its 
wonders, its beauties, its exaltations, there 
needs the gift of divine ignorance. Who has 
that may enter this world as a discoverer. That 
which we who live here know about it, and 
which is to us as the names of our streets and 
the gross things on our tables, appears to him 
as marvels never seen of man. Before him 
are mountains that lose their crests in the 
empyrean ; before him stretch vistas that sur- 
pass the feeble imaginations of the poets. He 
sees and knows this world as can no other, and 
could , if he would, properly scorn the dwellers 
therein. For this world, in brief, is the world 
of Music. 

From the Diary of a Hermit of the Flats. 
















THE SONG AND THE SINGER. 


PRELUDE. 

I. 



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9 



“Faust/’ Act III. — Gounod. 


“All the words ’n music of the opry ! Fifteen cents ! 
Cost ya quarter inside! Book, mister?” 

Ordway recoiled a bit before the insistence of the 
seedy individual who stood in his way and flaunted a 
libretto before his eyes. He wanted one, but he could 
do without it. So he assumed not to see or hear this 
tradesman of the streets, and pushed on. 

“Cost ya quarter inside,” repeated the dealer, falling 
in beside Ordway, and still holding the flimsy pamphlet 
where the cheap gilt cover design with the magnetic 
word “Faust” could not but be seen. 

“No!” said Ordway, groutily. 

The man instantly wheeled about and offered his 
stock to another. 

“How does he know that I am going to the opera?” 
mused Ordway. “And what makes him infer so con- 
fidently that the saving of ten cents is material to me ?” 

Annoying question to a sensitive nature. There was 
once a man who so shrank from the acknowledgment 

9 


io The Song and the Singer. 

of impecuniosity that, under the stinging influence of a 
libretto dealer’s economical argument, he bought a 
parquette seat for two dollars and a half, and a twenty- 
five-cent libretto from the boy in the aisle, when it had 
been his intention to take standing room for a dollar ; 
and, if he had been pinned down to it, he would have 
had to confess that he could not afford as much as 
standing room. 

The second query rankled little with Ordway. It was 
framed in his thoughts because the impulse operated 
swiftly, but it was as swiftly lost in the significant phrase 
of the first query — “Going to the opera.” It was hardly 
credible. There was a sensation in his breast that made 
him catch his breath and repeat dogmatically: “It is 
so! It is so!” Yes, he was going to the opera, and 
that this more than pleasure should be his was cause 
for wonder. It was not impossible, for here was he at 
the very entrance to the imposing building; here was 
he — Herbert Ordway — actually elbowing his way in, 
one of the throng to which the event was agreeably 
commonplace. With what elation did he take his posi- 
tion at the end of the line reaching to the box office ! 
With what ingenuous pride, wholly untainted by envy, 
did he observe the onward procession of gorgeous 
cloaks that gave fleeting and enchanting glimpses of the 
gowns beneath, a yards-long wreath of fur now and 
again slipping to muffled shoulders and thus displaying 
a handsome face! There was the flash of jewels, too, 
from bared heads ; and there was the embodiment of the 


The Song and the Singer. n 

crushing force that makes possible the wearing of 
jewels in the square-shouldered men who strode under 
high hats and behind shields of diamond-studded white, 
beside the women. It was all well, and as it should be ; 
and he, for the moment, was a part of it. 

Slowly the space between him and the ticket window 
decreased. At last he could see the passing in of money 
and the output of red and green slips. One man pro- 
tested at the place assigned him, and there was delay 
while the imperturbable man inside effected an ex- 
change. The man behind Ordway grumbled. To Ord- 
way, eager though he was to be within the walls of this 
abode of wonders, all this was but part and parcel of the 
experience. He smiled, not because he enjoyed the 
delay as such, but because it came to him under such 
exhilarating circumstances. 

At last there was but one ahead. Ordway heard the 
conversation. 

“Nothing for two dollars !” said the functionary 
within. 

“What ! All sold ?” queried the patron. 

“Orchestra chairs only.” 

“Well ” and the patron grudgingly handed in an- 

other dollar. 

It was Ordway’s turn. 

“One for a dollar, please,” said he. 

“Gallery entrance around the corner,” was the icily 
serene response from behind the window, and the ticket 
seller’s eyes turned inquiringly to the man next in line. 


12 


The Song and the Singer. 


Truly, to the box-office magnate all men are the same. 
It matters not to him that one patron would have a 
place for a dollar, and another for two. He is there to 
dispense exact justice at so much per, and he will pass 
out a slip entitling you to a chair behind a pillar without 
one throb of emotion. 

Nevertheless, Ordway blushed. It was not that he 
was going to the gallery, or that the place was so named. 
He had figured on that in his weeks of anticipation ; but 
there was a sense of maladroitness, a consciousness of 
rusticity, that made him lower his eyes as he faced the 
incoming procession of the richly garbed, and hurried 
from the main entrance. The same seedy book dealer 
who had accosted him before seized upon him again. 
Ordway bought a libretto this time, perhaps as a sop 
to a vague sense of disappointment, and fled around the 
corner. 

There was no long line of purchasers before the gal- 
lery ticket window. Three or four stragglers ahead 
slapped their dollars on the ledge and fairly ran with 
their oft-thumbed pasteboards to the beginning and up 
the first of the many flights of stairs. 

It seemed to Ordway that never should he arrive at 
the top. As it was apparently the fashion to hurry 
along this avenue to the heights, he also ran. Three 
steps at a time hardly sufficed him for the first flight, 
but two served for the second; and when at length he 
came to a morose-looking man who sat beside a gaping 
tin box, and who dropped his ticket into it, Ordway 


The Song and the Singer. 13 

was breathing hard. There were yet other winding stairs 
to climb. He was content now to put a foot on each 
step, and he was still panting when at last he saw the 
great chandelier, dimly lit, the curving rows of seats, 
the distant top of the proscenium arch, and when for 
the first time he smelt the atmosphere, rich with escaped 
gas, that is most delicious near the roof of a theatre. 
He filled his lungs with it, as he had to, there being no 
less tainted air at command, and liked it. Without fully 
realizing it, he yet perceived that this, too, was as it 
should be ; the very atmosphere of art was different 
from that of the commercial, libretto-selling world he 
had left behind and some unmeasured distance below. 
For a long time after that memorable evening his heart 
never failed to respond with a thrill of deep content 
when his nostrils recognized the characteristic odor ; and 
if he were to go to the gallery to-night, such is his reten- 
tion of impressionable buoyancy, his heart would thrill 
much as it did then — not so exultantly, doubtless, but in 
the same way. 

Ordway had snatched a programme from a pile on 
the way up, and now he sought for a seat. Every place 
in all the rows toward the front was taken. Far over 
on the other side were vacant places where the listener 
bade fair to bump his head against the roof if he stood 
up. He considered, and declined the opportunity they 
offered; some portion of the stage would likely be con- 
cealed from such a viewpoint. So he clambered into an 
extension of the gallery that rose up, and up, and back 


14 


The Song and the Singer. 


so far that the end of it seemed to be over the street, 
and there, on the very back row, he found a place. 
From it, as he sat down, he saw a conical hood on the 
front of the stage, and wondered what it was. 

As time went on, for it was yet early, a few more 
straggled into the gallery. Ordway studied his pro- 
gramme. Had he been in a front row he might have 
been more occupied in observing the yawning vastness 
of the place, and he might have found entertainment in 
the gradual filling of orchestra chairs far beneath, and 
the more gradual filling of the box tiers a little nearer,. 
As it was, he could not see a single box, and for a time 
the programme was his only relief. 

There was, first, the sprawling announcement on the 
cover page to be read, and then, after a hasty glance 
at several pages devoted to the glorification of certain 
pianofortes, bonbons and dentists — what is the bond be- 
tween the opera and dentistry that brings to the per- 
formance of one the unaesthetic announcement of the 
other? — he found the cast. This interested him deeply. 
There were names that, by dint of faithful reading of 
one musical periodical and the musical department of 
one Sunday paper, had become to him as household 
words. Was it actually possible that he was about to 
see and hear these great personages? 

It seemed as if he had been transported to an unreal 
land, or translated to a bygone age ; for, though the 
years were few since first he had learned these names, 
they had been long years to him, and the persons thus 


The Song and the Singer. 15 

identified were ‘like heroes from the misty past. That 
they were living, contemporaneous creatures had hardly 
occurred to him. There were Signor Thisini and Signor 
Thatolo, as Faust and Mephisto, respectively ; and Herr 
Somebodyski, as Valentin; Mile, de Whichere, as Mar- 
garet — Margarita, according to the programme; Mar- 
guerite, according to the libretto ; Madame Whatin, as 
Martha, and, oddly conspicuous among the foreign 
names, Miss Julia Ward, as Siebel. He had not heard 
of her. Young as he was, he could not but feel a special 
interest in this one person who, of all the cast at an 
American opera house, had a name that suggested her 
as a compatriot. He felt proud that one of his country- 
women had risen so high. 

Eventually, when the lights in the big chandelier were 
turned on to their fullest, so that the really fashionable 
folk then pouring in might be seen of men and women, 
Ordway took one long, comprehensive look at the hun- 
dreds in the great gallery, and wondered if all there 
were as happy as he was. For an instant he was con- 
scious of apprehension lest calamity — a fire, for ex- 
ample — should arise to snatch the cup from him ere it 
touched the lips. Then he dismissed the sensation as 
childish, and next moment his elbows were on his knees, 
his head bowed, his attention concentrated, for he heard 
the sombre tones of the violoncelli mourning in the 
unseen depths of the hollow beyond the front 
row. 

In all the realm of music there is little that suggests 


1 6 The Song and the Singer. 

the charm of mysticism so well as the first few measures 
in the introduction to “Faust.” Ordway felt it, and 
when the curtain rose he was prepared. There was the 
unkempt scholar, with his one absurd desk and his one 
solitary volume, and the same shabby pretence of a 
scene that you and I have long since chosen to accept 
without even mental protest as an incorrigible evil in 
the production of this opera. The shabbiness, the in- 
completeness of the picture, did not disturb him. The 
message of the poet was more than absorbing to him 
as it was voiced by the composer. The wabbling gentle- 
man behind the grey beard was Faust, and the plaints 
he uttered were those of the universal human soul. 

Then, presently, came Mephistopheles. Happy ob- 
server on the topmost back row, that on this occasion 
the distinguished barytone consented to effect his en- 
trance by way of a trap ! A lurid glow at one side of 
the stage, and, presto ! the devil, with his sonorous : 

“Sono qui !” 

How much more impressive than a conventional en- 
trance from the wings, or through a spring door in the 
drop! Ordway thinks so. Not since he arrived at the 
point where he could make comparisons has he ceased 
to long for the appearance of Satan from regions be- 
neath the surface. 

It was not that he was unduly impressed by the 
theatrical device, not that he suffered the slightest illu- 
sion. He observed the scene from the viewpoint of the 
creator thereof ; he accepted the devices of the stage as 


The Song and the Singer. 17 

so many symbols of the profound inner drama that 
wrought its way straight to his soul through the music. 

And thus it continued to the end. 

Between acts he read the libretto and pondered, and 
silently sung the fragments of tunes that posed in his 
fifteen-cent book as “all the music of the opry,” and 
pondered again. He did not realize that the waits were 
long, though it is safe to say that none among the thou- 
sands there assembled was more eager than he for the 
resumption of the performance. 

Not once did he stir from his lofty place. He stood 
up when the principals trailed, hand in hand, several 
successive times across the stage to the plaudits and 
shouts of the crowd, and he exulted at the marks of ap- 
proval bestowed upon Siebel’s flower song. In fact, 
that morceau made a more distinct impression upon 
him, musically considered, than did any other single 
feature of the presentation. That, doubtless, was be- 
cause of his preconceived interest in Miss Julia Ward 
as a straightforward American. The charm of the story 
was broken by her entrance. That is, he could dis- 
sociate his absorption in the drama from his curiosity 
about her personally. But this was for a moment only. 
Another, and she was to him the graceful embodiment 
of a boy’s innocent and hopeless love. 

Ordway was not in a critical frame of mind. All was 
to him as it should be, for he had never seen or heard 
anything like it. The one great work he had heard 
previous to “Faust” was “The Messiah,” and that 


18 The Song and the Singer. 

deeply-stirring oratorio is hardly suited to be the cri- 
terion of opera. Yet, when the curtain descended for 
the last time, and the revived Margarita, the erstwhile 
hell-bent Faust, and the debonnaire Mephisto had made 
their last bows, hand in hand and smiling, he marveled 
that an opera should be so short. It had occurred to 
him that an operatic representation should be at least 
half as long as that of an oratorio. 

When he glanced at a clock on a neighboring tower, 
as he issued from the building, his amazement knew no 
bounds. It was almost midnight. 

The spell was heavy upon him as he walked to his 
lodging. Some fleeting strains haunted him in turn, 
the easily remembered flower song rising above the re- 
cent memories of the exalted trio in the prison; but it 
was not as so many details that he recalled the perform- 
ance. Its weight as a dramatic, harmonious, artistic 
whole was upon him. He was profoundly melancholy. 


•L. 4 


II. 

There is no friend like the old friend. 

— Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

From force of habit Ordway awoke early. There had 
been dreams of heavenly choirs and diabolical orches- 
tras ; he had been alternately on the stage and off it ; 
and once he had swung the baton while a beautiful girl 
in blue tights sang of love and flowers. 

The awakening from these confusions was wholly 
agreeable. He laughed as he reviewed such hazy frag- 
ments as clung to his memory, and his heart swelled 
with renewed delight as he went clearly over the opera 
he had actually heard. Was there anything in the world 
that could equal it ? Certainly, emphatically, not ! 
What could the smart writers mean who spoke dis- 
paragingly of Gounod? Had they forgotten “Faust”? 

Ordway wrought himself into something akin to rage 
while he was dressing and thinking over the detractions 
of the Frenchman’s genius that had come his way. He 
would like to answer such fellows as they deserved. 

The melancholy of midnight had fled before splendid 
exaltation and a wholesome physical appetite. He ate 
the heartiest kind of a breakfast and went forth to see 
the town. 


19 


20 


The Song and the Singer. 


It was not wholly unfamiliar to him. He knew the 
way, and he presented himself early at the ticket office 
of a hall where a famous pianist was to give a recital 
in the evening. Not again would he take the risk of 
finding all the desirable places in the gallery pre-empted 
by early comers. At that, his diligence was rewarded 
by nothing better than a place nearly as close to the 
roof as he had been the evening before j but that place 
was secured, and he was content. He journeyed down- 
town, walked across the great bridge and back, and 
about noon shot skyward in an elevator to the editorial 
rooms of a newspaper. 

“Well?” said the uncommonly severe youth whose 
duty it was to meet visitors at the gate and give them 
hints of the perils of direct contact with journalism. 

Ordway was properly impressed, and inquired in the 
most subdued way if he could see Mr. Jameson. 

“Ain’t in yet,” snapped the boy, and slouched to the 
row of pastepots that, much to the impairment of his 
sense of dignity, he had been required to fill in the 
absence of a colleague. 

The caller would have liked to ask permission to wait, 
but he forbore to intrude unnecessarily on so important 
a personage as this prematurely soured Janus. He 
waited without consent, and looked with no small de- 
gree of awe upon a spectacled man in the far corner who 
was cutting pieces out of a newspaper. He was inter- 
ested, too, in a younger man who sat with his feet on 
a desk, reading, and in a portly, solemn-looking gentle- 


21 


The Song and the Singer. 

man in shirt-sleeves, who was writing, and who kept 
tab of his pen by barking a loud “Ahem !” every time 
he dipped it in ink. Ordway wondered if he were the 
editor-in-chief. 

Save for the periodical “Ahem !” and the shuffling 
feet of Janus, the room was very still until a brisk young 
fellow entered, slammed the gate behind him, went to 
a desk, raised the cover and began to throw things 
around inside it. Nobody paid any attention to him, 
though the portly gentleman said “Ahem!” when the 
time came. Presently the brisk young fellow shut the 
desk, wrinkled his brows at it, and lifted a book or two 
and some papers that were lying there. 

“Damn!” said he. 

“Amen !” said the man who was reading, without look- 
ing up. 

“Jimmy !” called the brisk fellow, and Janus looked up 
from his pastepots. “Where the devil are my scissors?” 

“Oh !” responded Jimmy, and, with astonishing alac- 
rity, he caught up the implement needed and ran with 
it to the inquirer. 

“You’re an infernal nuisance, Jimmy!” remarked the 
young man, feelingly. “I’ve told you time and again 
to let my scissors alone. Sponge on somebody else; 
d’ye hear?” 

Janus Jimmy evidently heard, for he looked doubly 
sour as he shuffled back to his distasteful employment. 
Ordwav exulted at the severe young person’s discomfi- 


ture. 


22 The Song and the Singer. 

“Ahem!” barked the portly gentleman, and all was 
still again. 

A moment later Ordway heard a voice that he knew 
at the door behind him. He turned and grasped the 
hand of the most surprised reporter in the city. 

“Bert !” he cried.' “Bert, by all that’s good, and true, 
and beautiful ! How are you ? Glad to see you, old 
fellow. Wait a second, will you? I’ve got to tell the 
old man something about a story I was on last night. 
Then we’ll have breakfast. Here, Jimmy, get a chair 
for this gentleman.” 

“Certainly, Mr. Jameson,” responded Janus, as the 
reporter strode past him. 

It came over Ordway, then, that Janus had no enviable 
position in the world’s affairs. Subject to the orders 
of many, without recourse from tyranny and abuse, 
what wonder that he should vent his repressed resent- 
ment upon shy visitors from the country? So, when 
Jimmy passed a chair over the rail, “Thank you, sir,” 
said Ordway, kindly. 

“Keep the change,” said Janus. 

Ordway smiled and watched the reporter stalk up to 
the desk of the spectacled man and make his report. 
He of the spectacles nodded two or three times, and 
the reporter departed abruptly. 

“Come on,” said he, as he issued from the gate, and 
took Ordway by the arm. 

“Ahem !” said the portly man. 

The reporter made no further remarks until he had 


The Song and the Singer. 23 

ushered his friend into the elevator car. Then he 
squared off and looked him over. 

“Gee !” he exclaimed, admiringly ; “what a peach it is ! 
How are things in East Wilton, Bert? Same old 
weather-beaten benches on the common? Is old Daddy 
Witherspoon still asleep with his feet on the rail of the 
hotel porch ? And how are the Muses, and all the little 
Muses, eh?” 

“See here, Billy,” cried Ordway, grasping his friend 
by the shoulders and shaking him with affectionate vio- 
lence, “this is no way to conduct a conversation. You 
answer your questions by the very asking ” 

“Except about the Muses.” 

“The Muses are doing very well, thank you. Tell me 
about those fellows in the office. What is the capacity 
of the gentleman in his shirt-sleeves ?” 

“Fatty Miller? Oh, I should say about a gallon a 
day.” 

“I mean what does he do for the paper.” 

“No! Did you mean that, Bert?” and the reporter 
affected surprise. “Same old Bert,” he added, with 
mock gravity — “just the same old, serious, prematurely 
aged Bert !” 

“Answer the question, Billy.” 

“Fatty Miller is the crop reporter, a man after your 
own heart, Bert. It is his distinguished privilege in 
journalism to inform an anxious public about the state 
of the weather in Kansas, and its probable effect on 
corn; likewise the price current of potatoes. At this 


24 


The Song and the Singer. 


impressive moment he is probably engaged upon an 
account of the most recent importation of Bermuda 
onions.” 

They had been schoolmates, Bert Ordway and Will 
Jameson, and the most intimate of companions until 
the time, three or four years agone, when Will broke 
from the restraints of a country village and ventured 
forth to conquer the city. Since then they had met but 
once, and the correspondence bravely, aye, ardently, 
begun had dwindled to naught, owing on the one side 
to Ordway’s increasing consciousness that there was 
nothing in East Wilton life that could interest Will, and 
on the other to the inability or unwillingness of a writer 
to write. 

Jameson was somewhat the elder, but that fact af- 
fected their intimacy not at all, for Ordway had been 
gifted with bookish precocity which brought it about 
that his associations were ever with boys who were his 
seniors. They thought of and referred to each other — 
these sprigs in their twenties — as “old” friends, and each 
stoutly believed that the other could be counted a firm 
ally in any emergency. Let it not be doubted that both 
were right. 

The walk was so crowded it was not the easiest thing 
for them to keep side by side after they left the news- 
paper building, but the crush was no damper upon the 
reporter’s volubility. He kept up a brisk descriptive 
commentary on the men in the office, turning quite 
around at times to enable his companion to hear, until, 


The Song and the Singer. 25 

still talking, he opened a door and entered a place that 
had the somewhat deceptive word “Cafe” inscribed on 
the windows. 

“It’s one of the evils of the system,” he was saying. 
“You get your orders from the day city editor and 
make your report to the night city editor. Meantime 
things may happen to make your orders look like thirty 
cents, and the night city editor may have ideas of his 
own. What will you have?” 

He came to this self-interruption with one elbow 
negligently against the bar. 

“Nothing,” said Ordway. “I’m not thirsty.” 

“Unhappy being!” sighed the reporter. “I’ve got a 
thirst on this morning that I wouldn’t exchange for a 
column story. Been nursing it all the way downtown 
and looking forward to this glorious moment. Man- 
hattan cocktail, John.” 

This latter was to the urbane bartender, who bowed 
and looked inquiringly at Ordway. There was one 
brief, fleeting instant when Jameson looked and acted 
as nearly embarrassed as it was possible for him to be. 
Then he added, easily: “Thirst loves company, Bert. 
Have a glass of seltzer, warranted innocuous.” 

Ordway took the seltzer and tried to swallow with it 
his rustic sense of discomfort at his friend’s conduct. 
Shortly afterward they were in a restaurant discussing 
what was breakfast to one and luncheon to the other. 

“You’ve made me do all the talking thus far,” said 
Jameson. “Tell me about yourself,” 


26 


The Song and the Singer. 


“Willingly,” replied Ordway; “it’s so easy! I’ve 
come to the city for a week of music.” 

“So?” 

“I heard 'Faust’ last night.” 

“Bully for you ! And where away to-night ?” 

Ordway told him. 

“That’s right,” and Jameson nodded vigorously. “To- 
morrow night opera again, I suppose ; and Thursday 
night?” 

“There’s an embarrassing choice of recitals.” 

“That must be a grateful novelty for you. I suppose 
the musical life of East Wilton still finds its highest and 
only expression in the psalms” (Billy pronounced it 
“sams”) “at the First Church, with its wheezy old 
organ ” 

He stopped abruptly. Ordway had consciously tried 
to hold his face immovable, and, of course, he had 
failed. 

“I beg your pardon, old fellow/’ said Jameson. “I 
suppose you still play the organ there and lead the 
choir ?” 

“Yes ; but don’t think I’m idiot enough to be sensitive 
of any fun you can get out of it.” 

“No one said you were sensitive, Bert. Perish the 
thought! What else do you do in a musical way? 
You canYgive your whole time to it, I suppose?” 

“No; the field isn’t big enough for that. I’m still 
keeping#the books in the shoe factory. Evenings I look 


The Song and the Singer. 27 

after a few pupils in piano and voice. I practice a great 
deal.” 

“And compose still ?” 

“I couldn’t help that,” said Ordway, simply. “I write 
anthems for the choir, and I’ve got the singers so well 
trained that they read from manuscript only a little 
worse than they do from print.” 

“They sing your music, do they?” 

“Pretty often — more often than is compatible with 
good taste, I fear ; but when a fellow has written some- 
thing, you know, it’s pretty hard to keep it back.” 

“Yes,” laughed the reporter, “you need a city editor. 
But, seriously, Bert, I have more respect for the musical 
atmosphere of East Wilton after hearing that. There’s 
hope for it. Tell me what you get out of it.” 

“In a money way?” 

“Sure! What other way is Oh! your artistic 

soul leaps to the reply that the best reward is the do- 
ing, eh ?” 

“I’m inclined to think so. I do long for perform- 
ance, for appreciation. I can’t help that any more than 
I can help writing; and I must say that the ducks and 
drakes my choir makes of my anthems at times is not 
wholly calculated to encourage desire for performance.” 

Ordway laughed gently, as if stirred by comical rem- 
iniscences. 

“Well, but what’s the money return?” 

“I get a dollar a Sunday for playing in church, and 
my pupils pay fifty cents a lesson.” 


28 


The Song and the Singer. 


“Do you mean it?” demanded Jameson, with sudden 
sharpness of tone. 

“Yes; why shouldn’t I? What’s the matter?” 

The rustic musician smiled tranquilly, but he for- 
bore to ask the newspaper man more particularly just 
then, for Billy was swearing softly all to himself, and 
it seemed a pity to disturb him. When he had soothed 
himself sufficiently, he made reply in his own peculiar 
way. 

“It’s a damned outrage — that’s what it is !” he said. 

“I don’t know,” responded Ordway, still smiling. “I 
have managed to provide for myself and mother, and T 
have pinched sufficiently to give myself this week’s 
glorious vacation.” 

“Relatively speaking, that’s better than I’ve done,” 
said Billy; “but it makes my blood boil to think of it, 
just the same. You ought to be in New York.” 

Ordway’s face flushed and his eyelids quivered. 

“Pooh, Billy !” said he. “What could a man like me 
do in New York? What place is there ” 

“A man like you!” echoed Billy. “Why, you could 
own the town in time. This is where the money is, 
Bert. Now, you’re a genius ” 

“Rubbish!” interrupted Ordway; but there was a 
pleased glow in his eyes. He added: “I understand 
that every man you meet on the streets is a finished 
pianist.” 

“Yes; and you can’t swing a stick without hitting a 
composer; but that’s all the more reason why a man 


The Song and the Singer. 


29 


with real talent See here, Bert, you can’t possibly 

dream how much is accomplished in this blessed burg 
by assurance, impudence, gall — anything you care to 
call i* except talent. Behold the fakirs of the town! 
They know not the fiddle, neither do they sing, and yet 

I say unto you Hang the text ! My paraphrase 

halts; but this is the point, old fellow: New York is 
the place for you. Don’t rust in that sleepy village 
any longer. Come here and make your bid for fame 
and fortune. Think it over.” 

Ordway’s heart beat faster. The supreme confidence 
of his friend excited him. There is nothing like it, the 
confidence of under thirty. It is dangerously contagious 
to others under thirty. Billy’s own career was stimula- 
tive. Had he not gone from a country village, un- 
known and unheralded, to the city, and had he not “got 
on,” as the saying is ? 

The musician did think it over. He thought while 
Billy gabbled, and a little later began tentatively: “I 
suppose the problem would be more than half solved 
by getting a start. If I had any influence, or friends, 
it might be worth thinking of.” 

“What’s the matter with me ?” asked Billy. 

“Well,” admitted Ordway, “I had half imagined that 
a newspaper man might have influence.” 

“I don’t own the paper, but I could boom you.” 

Ordway caught his breath. The very suggestion of 
being exploited in a city newspaper was too alluring 
and appalling at once to be discussed lightly. He dared 


30 


The Song and the Singer. 


of the fellows. They often give me a concert to do 
when there are several going at the same time. I could 
run in paragraphs about you easily enough. You think 
it over, Bert.” 

Ordway heard the famous pianist in the evening, and 
the next night he was again at the opera house. “Lucia” 
was the bill. It fascinated him with its luscious melo- 
dies, and he thought it a very, very great work — not 
equal to “Faust,” of course ; and he had a vague per- 
ception that the banality of the story was measurably 
accountable for the lesser value. On this occasion he 
went early and joined with the hundreds who rushed 
madly up the stairs to scramble for good places the 
moment the doors were opened. He found a place in 
not approach the matter openly. Perhaps Billy would 
voluntarily tell him how effective booming could be 
managed. 

“Speaking of that,” said Ordway, trying to keep his 
voice steady, and succeeding so far as Billy’s observa- 
tion went, “just what do you do for the paper?” 

“Oh,” was the laughing reply, “any old thing ! I go 
to prize fights and symphony concerts with equal non- 
chalance — and ignorance.” 

“And success?” 

“That’s well asked. Why, yes, I guess so. I de- 
scribe what I see in the coarser events ; and as to the 
finer — well, I’ve always been interested in music, you 
know, and I keep up in it fairly well — better than most 
the front row near the end whence he could see the 


The Song and the Singer. 31 

prompter’s book lying on the stage behind the conical 
hood, and whence he could look with embarrassing 
directness into the prima donna’s bosom. 

About midway in the performance the man sitting 
beside him went to humming the air that the tenor 
was singing. Ordway endured in wondering silence for 
a time. At last he drew back from the rail and shot 
one glance of supreme disgust at his neighbor. The 
audience applauded hysterically at the conclusion of the 
piece. The neighbor turned to Ordway. 

“Don’t you like music?” he asked. 

“I do,” replied the rustic, coldly. 

“Oh!” and the tone showed that the man was sur- 
prised. “I know every note in fourteen operas,” he 
added. 

Ordway climbed to a place in the back row, and sat 
there during the rest of the performance. 

The next evening he attended a song recital, and then 
came the morning of Friday, the last day of his ex- 
hilarating vacation. A letter came to him from Billy 
Jameson, written some time after midnight. 

“They’ve put on ‘Faust’ again at the opera,” he wrote, 
“and I’ve asked for the paper’s tickets. What’s better, 
I’ve got ’em. We’ll go together, if you like. I shall 
be busy until late, but come to my room after dinner.” 

Ordway’s programme had not included another opera. 
He had planned to go to a symphony, but “Faust” in 
a good seat, and with his friend beside him, was the 
best finale to his pleasure that could have been devised. 


3 2 


The Song and the Singer. 


At seven-thirty by the clock he knocked at Billy’s room. 
The reporter opened the door. He was half dressed, 
and was, in fact, just struggling with a refractory collar 
of the most impressive height. Ordway gave a gasp 
of consternation. 

“Come in,” said Billy. “What’s up?” 

“Nothing. I’m not up — that’s the trouble.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Why, this, Billy: I hadn’t thought of the fashion- 
able regulations of the opera house. I’m not dressed 
for it, and couldn’t be if I would. The musical life of 
East Wilton, you know, doesn’t demand that the most 
conspicuous musician there shall own a dress suit.” 

Billy stood gaping, his collar in his hand. 

“Pooh !” said he, tossing the article across the room. 
“Do you suppose I dress when I go to the opera? I 
was just hurrying to get these things off. Had to go 
out to interview a howling swell after six o’clock, you 
know, and as I had to look for him at a fashionable 
function, I put on my uniform. That’s all. Sit down a 
minute till I get into more comfortable clothes.” 

Ordway sat down, but he was not wholly convinced. 

“I’m afraid you’re trying to let me down easy,” he 
said. “You would have dressed for the opera if I hadn’t 
been along.” 

“Rot !” cried the cheerful liar, as he hurriedly reversed 
his preparations, “I never dress for the opera. Don't 
you see, I’m going professionally. I have no part in the 
fashionable aspect of it. Don’t you worry.” 


The Song and the Singer. 


33 


This was advice too good to be neglected, and Ord- 
way took it. Nevertheless he observed that of all the 
men in the lower part of the house he and his friend were 
the only ones who were not “dressed.” 

The opera renewed the deep impression it had made 
before. He found beauties in the music that had es- 
caped him the first time ; he enjoyed the fact that he was 
in a good seat, and he missed Miss Julia Ward from the 
cast. Siebel was played by a young woman with a for- 
eign name. She was graceful and pretty, particularly 
when she appeared in profile — which she contrived to do 
with great frequency — and she had a good voice. Ord- 
wav critically estimated her as not so good as Miss 
Ward. 


III. 

At the last analysis the life of every man is solitary ; 

But there are degrees of solitariness ; 

And the most extreme is that of him who creates. 

— The Hermit. 

Home, home to account books and the sodden smell 
of leather ; to rehearsals and services in the First 
Church ; to the solicitous care of a patient and adoring 
mother ; to music paper, and the pianoforte, and one to 
whose girlish eyes the organist at the First Church was 
the greatest man in the world. 

These persons and things made up the life of East 
Wilton. All else were scenery, properties and supernu- 
meraries. 

If at this point any question should arise as to the pre- 
cise relationship between Ordway and Barbara Kendall, 
to whose eyes allusion has just been made, let it frankly 
be understood that neither of them could remember 
when they had not been playmates ; that so long had East 
Wilton folk looked upon them as “a match” that gossip 
had tired of mentioning it ; and that no word preliminary 
to such an understanding had been spoken by either of 
the principals thereto. When he was six years old Her- 


The Song and the Singer. 


35 


bert was wont to declare that Barbara was his sweet- 
heart, and he used to put his arms around her in effusive 
demonstration ; and Barbara received his attentions with 
manifest pleasure and just the touch of shyness that pro- 
claimed her femininity. The men used to chuckle pro- 
phetically, and the women say, “La ! such dears !” 
But, such is the way of life ! It took but ten short years 
to eliminate the word “love” from the lad’s vocabu- 
lary, save as it entered conveniently into certain verses 
that began early to indicate his devotion to dames of less 
tangible personality. 

Ordway had taken account of his expenditures on 
the Saturday morning of his departure. He had accom- 
plished his vacation within his appropriation. Billy 
Jameson could not have done so well. That irrepressible 
worthy never yet had come to the end of a vacation with- 
out the necessity of telegraphing a friend for a loan, or 
the office for an advance, to save himself a toilsome walk 
back to the city. Ordway gave himself one unpremedi- 
tated luxury — he bought a copy of “Faust.” 

There was a trying season of struggle to get back into 
the rut wherein the wheels of his life had seemed to fit. 
His was not like the case of that man who had to work 
hard for several weeks to recover from an exhausting 
vacation; Ordway had been dazzled by a vision of a 
larger life. Deep in his heart was disquieting fear, al- 
most conviction, that he was not suited for it. His lim- 
itations scared him. Could he breast the city’s surging 


36 


The Song and the Singer. 


tide? Would he not likely be engulfed by it? 

He wondered, and longed, and grew sick at heart 
when on his way to the factory he saw the white steeple 
of the First Church. 

Mrs. Ordway observed and mourned. She was too 
wise to speak. 

A considerable quantity of good music paper was 
spoiled during the first weeks after Ordway’s return. 
The Muses and “all the little Muses” were in a bad way 
for once ; feverish, excitable, and their aggressive symp- 
toms were manifested in poems begun and never ended, 
in fragments of tunes, in anthems that would not work 
out to a satisfactory climax. There was a piece for the 
pianoforte that traversed all the keys and stopped 
abruptly in the midst of shocking dissonances because 
the harried composer could not for his life conceive of 
an appropriate ending. 

Insensibly the turmoil subsided. Routine told, routine 
and such measure of good sense as Nature had bestowed 
upon him. Presently Ordway became aware that he was 
calmer, and he sent a letter to Billy. 

“Leather and cobbler’s wax,” he wrote, “make a re- 
markable anaesthetic. They have gotten in their deadly 
work. I shall not dream further of going to New York.” 

The two operas had renewed his interest in foreign 
languages. Whether he analysed his impulses in this 
matter need not be discussed, the plain fact being that 
he pored over his own books and others from the town 
library in search of poems to set to music. On the even- 


The Song and the Singer. 


37 


ing of the day when he posted his letter to Billy he found 
one that made a sudden appeal to him. It was in Ital- 
ian. He had read the thing before, but never had seen 
it in just this light. By that swift mental process that 
the unthinking call inspiration he perceived a musical 
form, an introductory scene, then an air, and coincident- 
ally, or apparently so, melodic phrases went to singing 
in his mind. 

He worked till a late hour that night. 

A day or two passed, during which, as he toiled over 
the factory books, his thoughts were never far from the 
new song. It had not been finished at the first writing. 
Many of the problems were solved in the factory office, 
and light on others came to him while he was walking 
to and fro. Inseparable from his contemplation of the 
music were visions of public performance. He fancied 
a famous prima singing it, such a divinity of song as she 
who had appeared in “Lucia.” There rang in his ears 
the plaudits of a crowded house. He wondered wdiat the 
critics would say of it. 

One phase of the matter did not occur to him at that 
period — this composition proceeded in its building with- 
out embarrassment. It halted, yes, and there were 
difficulties that corrugated his brow and drove him to 
furious extemporizations at the pianoforte; but there 
was none of the aimless, formless, reminiscent confusion 
that had obstructed him immediately after his return 
home. This piece was his own, springing into life from 
the mysterious impulses of the tuneful inner spirit. That 


38 The Song and the Singer. 

it did not take perfect shape at once was no matter for 
discouragement ; the form was there, somewhere, and 
by dint of unremitting effort he would find it. 

His mother’s attention was attracted. “What is it that 
you are playing and humming all the time now?” she 
asked. 

“An Italian aria, mother,” he answered ; “it’s going to 
be the best thing I ever did.” 

She patted his cheek indulgently. 

“Every new thing is the best thing, isn’t it, Bert ?” 

“Yes,” he answered, seriously, “while it is being 
made.” 

There came a free evening and he took his incomplet- 
ed manuscript to Barbara Kendall. 

She, too, was fatherless, and to some degree depend- 
ent upon her own. exertions ; that is, it was only by con- 
stant contriving by herself and her mother that their 
small property was made to support them. Of late years 
Ordway had cultivated the habit of taking his pieces to 
her for their first presentation. She sang in his choir, 
and on many occasions had been of invaluable assistance 
to him in dragging the sopranos through a manuscript 
anthem whose progress she had watched from incipiency 
in pencil to completeness in ink. 

He found her sewing industriously by lamplight. Her 
mother had gone to a neighbor’s. 

“Is it a new anthem?” she asked, noting the flat parcel 
under his arm. Ordway regarded it as an unpardonable 
crime to roll music. 


The Song and the Singer. 


39 


“No,” said he. “This is something unlike anything 
I ever did. Put down your work and see for yourself. 
It isn’t quite finished, but I can give you a pretty good 
idea of it.” 

He was already at the instrument, and Barbara stood 
behind him, her sewing in her hands, her eyes intent 
upon the music paper. 

“This is orchestral, of course,” he explained, after he 
had banged out some preliminary chords, “and you must 
understand that it’s for soprano voice. Don’t try to 
sing it yet. Let me run through it first. That deep note 
will be given by the kettle-drum. This is for wood wind. 
Then the voice.” 

Thus to the end. He paused now and again to repeat 
a passage, and to explain how it would be scored for or- 
chestra, and twice he stopped to confess that here were 
gaps that he had not yet decided how to fill. 

“But it will lead to this,” he added, plunging again 
into the completed sketch. His face flushed long before 
he reached the climax, and, fired by the joy of his own 
creation, he made the staid old instrument quiver in 
more than its strings, and give forth such shouts and 
torrential harmonies as if its daily exercise were not 
upon hymn tunes and bucolic songs. 

“There !” he cried, whirling about and looking up at 
Barbara. 

There was the light of admiration and vague trouble 


40 


The Song and the Singer. 


in her eyes. The one he could understand if it had not 
been alloyed with the other. 

“I think it will be very pretty/’ she ventured. 

“Pretty!” he echoed, contemptuously, and he turned 
his back to her. He strummed discordantly for a mo- 
ment, and when he paused she added : 

“You haven’t worked it all out, yet.” 

“I know,” he retorted, petulantly, “but don’t you 
grasp the idea? You’ve seen through many an anthem 
that hasn’t been half as far along as this.” 

“Yes.” 

She sat down, and her needle began a rapid flashing 
while she bent her head over it. 

Ordway gulped at the lump in his throat. 

“What’s the matter with it, Barbara?” he asked, with 
something akin to humility in his tone. 

“Why, nothing, Bert !” she replied at o-nce, and she 
looked up. “It’s just me, that’s all. I don’t under- 
stand it.” 

“You don’t need to understand if it’s beautiful.” 

Barbara bowed her head again. 

“Doesn’t this main theme appeal to you?” 

He whirled to the keyboard again and played a few 
measures. 

“Yes,” she said, “that is very pretty.” 

She did not see his shoulders quiver at the adjective. 

“And the rest of it,” he insisted, his voice grating 
harshly. “Don’t you find anything in it? Doesn’t it 
suggest any sort of comment ?” 





“What’s the matter with it, Barbara?” he asked. 

See page 40. 




The Song and the Singer. 


4i 


“Why, Bert,” she answered, “I’ve told you honestly 
that 1 don’t understand it. You don’t want me to tell 
you a lie about it, do you? You don’t want me to praise 
it till I feel sure of myself, do you?” 

Ordway was afflicted with incurable honesty of a very 
delicate kind. It prevented him from answering. He 
knew in his heart that he would have liked to hear a 
flattering lie, and yet, not from Barbara. 

“Of course, you can’t grasp the piece as I do ; I know 
there are things there that I can’t bring out. I know it’s 
all right,” he said, doggedly. “How is your mother?” 

He folded the sheets, but left them on the rack, and 
went to the window, whence he looked out upon the or- 
chard then filled to intoxication with fragrant bloom. 
The moon was white on apple and pear tree, white in 
spots upon the grass where a carpet of petals was 
making. At that moment the infinite peace and beauty 
of the scene were to him as a barren ledge. He did not 
see the tear that fell on Barbara’s work. 

Presently he made a manful effort to recover from his 
disappointment. At times before this she had failed to 
comprehend his work. This was not the first occasion 
when she had made him suffer. But those other times 
he had seen, eventually, that she was right. Now — it 
was different. He knew this work. He had been a fool 
to exploit it in so imperfect a way. 

“Barbara,” he said, gently, “let’s go out. I think I 
never saw your trees so covered with blossoms.” 

She arose at once. 


42 


The Song and the Singer. 


“I wish you could see them by daylight,” she said. 
“All the flowers have come in a rush this spring. I sup- 
pose that means they won’t last as long as usual.” 

“I believe I’ll get up a half hour earlier to-morrow so 
as to pass here on my way to work.” 

They went forth and strolled under the trees, silent 
for the most part. When they did speak it was not of 
music. He paused under a tree that spread its smiling 
branches wide and seemed to fold itself over the senses 
with caressing benevolence. 

“I wonder if there’s anything in Central Park equal 
to this?” he said. 

“Never!” cried Barbara. “Don’t tell me that your 
great city is anything but stuffy, and ugly and cruel ! 
I’m so glad New York didn’t turn your head, Bert.” 

“But it did,” he responded, ruefully ; “turned it clear 
around so that it’s now facing the right way again.” 

“Then no harm’s done,” she declared, gaily, and she 
reached up to pull down a branch, from which she 
plucked a generous spray of pink and white that she 
pinned deftly to his coat. 

As they neared the house in their content-giving ram- 
ble they heard the pianoforte. 

“What in the name of goodness !” exclaimed Ordway. 

He recognized the opening phrases of his new piece. 

They hurried in. Mrs. Kendall had returned, and with 
her came Jane Twitchell, Barbara’s cousin. Jane was an 
elderly young woman, who might have married in some 
bygone age if it had not been that she quarreled with 


The Song and the Singer. 43 

her sweetheart. They found his body in the mill pond 
two days later. 

It was a terrible tragedy for her ; nobody probably 
ever realized how terrible, for Jane had her own way of 
bearing up. As years passed she developed a wit that 
was not always tempered with discretion, and she never 
lost opportunity to point a moral with lovers by be- 
rating her own folly. 

“Served me right for being a silly young fool !” she 
would say, with infinite self-contempt. “Til never take 
the risks of a man’s life in my hands again.” 

As no man had ever besought her to undertake that 
responsibility Jane’s resolution remained unshaken. 

It was Jane who was at the instrument. 

Ordway strode to the pianoforte and took the sheets 
away. There was a smile on his face, but it said very 
plainly, “Mind your own business, Jane.” 

“Sakes alive!” she protested. “Is that New York 
manners ?” 

“It isn’t done yet, Jane,” said he, still smiling. 

“But what’s the harm of my finding out what it’s 
going to be while you two go philandering in the or- 
chard and catching rheumatism? Come, Bert; let’s 
hear it.” 

“No.” 

'“Why not?” 

“I told you it wasn’t finished.” 

“But it begins splendidly ! Do let’s hear some of it ! 


44 The Song and the Singer. 

I sha’n’t mind the lack of finish. I shall know what it’s 
going to be.” 

Ordwav’s smile took on a more agreeable cast. . The 
note of appreciation told ! But he persisted. 

“Jane,” said he, roguishly, “you don’t know what 
you’re talking about. Ask Barbara.” 

She didn’t ask Barbara, and Barbara volunteered no 
opinion. 


IV. 

The way of a man with a maid. 

One of the four things that Solomon could not under- 
stand. 

I think the translators have erred. Solomon surely 
meant to say, “the way of a maid with a man. 

— The Hermit. 

Spring, as Barbara had foretold, leaped into Summer, 
and the hot months dragged by. The time arrived when 
Ordway’s problems were solved. There had been many 
anxious debates at home, and there had been some cor- 
respondence with Billy. The reporter’s answer to the 
letter quoted above, which had arrived while yet the 
ground was white with fallen bloom, said : 

“Don’t be an idiot, or, if you must, come here where 
idiocy may be turned to account.” 

One Sunday afternoon, it was. the time when boughs 
that had been white bent under burdens of brown and 
gold, Ordway found Barbara in the orchard. 

“Barbara,” said he, “I am going away.” 

Does it smack of the conventional romance ? It can- 
not be helped. Such was the beginning of their scene, 
and thus it often begins in real life as well as in books. 
In this instance the announcement failed to take the 
woman by surprise. 

“You have thought it all over,” she said, half-inquir- 
ingly, half-affirmatively. 


45 


46 


The Song and the Singer. 


“Yes,” he said. 

”And your mother approves?” 

“Yes. The question of living is settled. I went to 
New York last Monday to try for the position as organ- 
ist that Billy recommended me for, and the place is mine. 
I received notice of the appointment last night. I shall 
send the money to mother every month. For myself, I 
shall hustle, as Billy says.” 

She looked intently at the ground. It was impos- 
sible just then to meet his eyes, for she knew intuitively 
what was there. 

“I hope it will be for the best, Bert,” she said. 

“It must be,” he responded, singularly quiet. Then, 
“Barbara, I am going away at once, for my duties as or- 
ganist begin next Sunday. As I come to the time of 
leaving 1 realize that Tve always loved you, ever since I 
can remember, Barbara. We’ve never spoken of this. 
Somehow it didn’t seem necessary. Tell me ” 

He was reaching for her hand, the hand he had clasped 
so many times in childish rambles through the woods 
and fields, but she anticipated him, turning upon him 
suddenly, taking his hand in both her own, and inter- 
rupting him. 

“Oh, Bert!” she said, and there was anguish in her 
tone, “are you sure — very sure ?” 

“Sure !” he echoed, amazed. “Sure of what ?” 

“That you love me?” 

“Why, how could I be mistaken ? With all my life to 
look back on ” 


The Song and the Singer. 


47 


“I know; but, Bert, just because you have seen me 
always it does not prove that there will not be some 
other better fitted for your peculiar needs, some one who 
can enter into your life more completely ” 

“Nonsense, Barbara! I know my own needs. You 
are a thousand times too good for me ” 

“That isn’t it, Bert ; how can you know what you have 
told me?” 

He did not understand her at all. 

“Barbara,” he said, “do you doubt my love for you?” 

“No,” she answered, hesitatingly, and her great eyes 
searched his. 

“Then it is yourself,” he cried. 

She shook her head. 

“I think everything of you, Bert; but love is such a 
great thing! It ought to last so long, and endure so 
much, and be equal to any sacrifice.” 

“No sacrifice would be too great, Barbara.” 

The lashes never seemed to close over her eyes. She 
searched him as if she had been turned to stone. He felt 
her hands growing cool on his own. 

“Bert,” she said, sombrely, “a woman demands as 
much from a man as a man from a woman. Could you 
give up your music for me ?” 

“Give up my music !” he gasped. “Give up my music. 
You don’t mean that you want me to do that?” 

“If you had to choose, Bert, which would it be?” 

He did not answer her at once ; he did not answer the 
question at all, for when he spoke it was to say : 


48 


The Song and the Singer. 


“Listen, Bert. I know what you would say. You 
think you wouldn’t mind when I failed to understand 

“You cannot love me and ask that.” 

A tear rolled down her cheek. 

“We are so different,” she faltered. 

And during the pause, and while she spoke, rebellion, 
hot rebellion, rose from wounded pride within him. Give 
up music! Was this the substance of the admiration 
she had seemed to show for his genius? Could she be 
so cruel as to demand the surrender of his career for her 
love?” 

“You do not love me, Barbara,” he said, and he with- 
drew his hand; “you don’t know what love is, or you 
wouldn’t torture me so.” 

She bowed her head. 

“A man loves with all the force of his nature,” he pro- 
ceeded, hotly; “he doesn’t stop to consider details — he 
cannot. His love is overwhelming and imperative, and 
it simply asks in return the trust that it gives spontane- 
ously. Barbara, that is my love.” 

He paused, choking. No answer from the downcast 
girl before him. 

“You have feared to have me go to the city,” he re- 
sumed. “Have you no confidence in me ” 

“Oh, Bert,” she cried, “I believe in you! You are 
honorable, your ambition is high, and it is that I am 
afraid of. I am not your equal in the art you aspire to. 
I should be a drag on you ” 

“If that is all ” 


The Song and the Singer. 


49 


“Listen, Bert. I know what you would say. You 
think you wouldn’t mind when I failed to understand 
your deepest thoughts and feelings. But think how 
young you are, how little you have seen of the world, 
and the terribly busy life you will have in the city.” 

She shuddered. It was the thought of the city — some- 
thing strange, complex, perilous, teeming with unknown 
possibilities beyond the extravagant fancies of a thou- 
sand dreams. A shadow had fallen upon her life. It was 
the city. She saw not what cast it, but she saw the 
shadow. It chilled her, terrified her. 

Barbara Kendall was a country girl. There have been 
men of supposed strength whose hearts have shrank 
with vague apprehension when first they looked into the 
dark maw of London or New York. 

Ordway smiled indulgently. He repressed for the mo- 
ment that stinging resentment that came from her chal- 
lenge. 

“I believe I’m not noted for infatuation with every 
pretty face I see,” he suggested, lightly. 

Barbara’s brows contracted for an instant. 

“You know I was not thinking of anything like that,” 
she responded, and her tone was almost cool. Then it 
was eager, tremulous, as she added : “Bert, may not a 
woman be exacting ? May she not ask that her husband 
shall hold her more dear than all else in the world?” 

“You doubt me, Barbara.” 

“I am afraid.” 


50 


The Song and the Singer. 


“You do not love me. You despise my music. You 
think me a weakling in the art ” 

“No ” 

“Yes, you do ! If not you wouldn’t raise these doubts. 
You would believe in me. Love doesn’t see, much less 
seek for disparagements.” 

Humbled, defeated, she bowed her head again. He 
turned from her, quivering with wounded pride, humili- 
ated, broken in the way he had least anticipated. 

“Bert,” she said, and he wheeled about. “Cannot we 
be friends?” 

For a long minute they faced one another in silence. 

“I cannot understand you, Barbara,” he said at last. 

“I am sorry ; but we can be friends, can’t we ? I want 
to be your friend, Bert.” 

A flash of pain crossed his face. 

“Yes,” he said, shutting his teeth together, “I suppose 
we can be friends. Good-bye.” 

He held out his hand. She clasped it again in both 
her own. 

“Good-bye,” said she. 


ALLEGRO. 

I. 

See how we apples swim ! 

— Old Saw. 

Boxford was in its annual condition of artistic fer- 
ment. Music, that had laid dormant for months, save in 
the weekly meetings of the choral society, was up and 
at work. The festival was on. Gentlemen whom the 
suffrages of their fellow-citizens never had elevated as 
high as the Common Council were temporarily conspic- 
uous. There were foreign names on the hotel regis- 
ters, and at the principal hostelry the enterprising man- 
agement had taken on an additional bellboy and laid in a 
hundred-weight of corn starch, with an eye to an un- 
usual demand for ice cream. 

Residents of moderate means thought twice when 
they were besought by wives and daughters to get tick- 
ets ; the wives and daughters thought two hundred times 
apiece as to what they should wear; wealthy residents 
wondered languidly what their proportion of the de- 
ficit would be. 

Everybody who was anybody talked of Guarda — 

Guarda, the incomparable, the bright, particular star of 

the festival; Guarda, who, according to frantic press 

01 


52 


The Song and the Singer. 


announcements, had enthralled the capitals of Europe 
and turned the heads of three kings. Her picture was 
in nearly every store window ; her name fairly roared 
from the billboards. There were to be other singers and 
instrumentalists, but, bless you ! their names were to be 
Measured in contemptible inches ; Guarda’s in feet. 

It may be remarked parenthetically, and with some 
timidity for the intrusion, that musical works were to be 
performed that certain simple-minded persons regarded 
with reverence ; but having set down so much merely 
with a view to historical completeness, let nothing else 
be whispered to diminish in any wise the abundant glory 
of the prima donna. The annual music festival was on, 
and the critics were sharpening their pencils ; but, in the 
terse language of the day, Guarda was IT. 

It was morning, and in the great hall where the con- 
certs were given preparations were making for a re- 
hearsal. On the platform were half a hundred men with 
fiddles of various sizes and other music machines. Some 
were blowing and scraping A’s and empty fifths , some 
were grumbling at the length of the programmes ; some 
were demonstrating to their own satisfaction and that 
of their listeners that the conductor was an ass. The 
librarian went from one to another distributing parts. 
There were piles of music sheets on the edge of the plat- 
form near the south door. Each pile represented one 
number on the programme. The librarian was method- 
ically lessening the number of piles by scattering their 
elements among the players. 


The Song and the Singer. 


53 


About midway in the main aisle were several men 
with overcoats on. There was Mr. Alexander, president 
of the choral society ; Mr. Lord, chairman of the finan- 
cial committee ; Mr. Louis Biddle, chairman of the pro- 
gramme committee ; Mr. Llorace Clark, chairman of the 
chorus committee, and some lesser lights, bankers and 
merchants who had no official designations, but who 
made up for that in the alacrity with which they ran on 
errands. And there was also Mr. William Jameson, the 
first of the “visitors from a distance,” as Boxford called 
the New York critics, to arrive. It was the same Billy, 
though nearly three years older than when first he ap- 
peared in this chronicle, and he kept his face straight, to 
the great discomfort of his sleeves, when the Boxford 
gentlemen referred to him as a critic. Billy’s paper had 
sent him to “do” the festival, that was all. Nothing had 
been said about criticism. Billy said as much when Mr. 
Alexander asked him, with more eagerness than tact, if 
Mr. Bosworth were not coming. 

Mr. Bosworth, be it understood, was the musical critic 
for Billy’s paper, and, in the minds of Boxford, Mr. Bos- 
worth was a very great man indeed. No festival was 
ever regarded as quite complete, no matter how large 
the deficit, if it had not been illumined by his presence. 

“The fact is, gentlemen,” said Billy, addressing the 
o-roup generally, “that Boz couldn’t foresee very serious 
employment for his pen. You haven’t put on any im- 
portant novelties this year, you know.” 

His lips were parted, and he had caught his breath to 


54 


The Song and the Singer. 


go on with an argument showing the advisability of 
bringing out new works each year, especially American 
works, and that would have been followed speedily by 
direct suggestion of the works of a certain native com- 
poser whom Billy could recommend, and of whom it had 
not as yet been the good fortune of Boxford to hear ; but 
the sombre gravity that came upon the faces of the festi- 
val managers, and the significant glances they ex- 
changed, warned him to go .slow. The shot had hit the 
mark. Another at once might destroy the target. Billy 
decided quickly to bide his time and wait for the oppor- 
tunity. It came soon, and in the most unexpected way. 

“That’s just what I’ve maintained all along,” said Bid- 
dle, aggressively. “We must get novelties, but ” 

“But,” interrupted Mr. Lord, “we’ve had to econo- 
mize this year, Mr. Jameson, and so we’re trying familiar 
works to see how the public will take them.” 

“And as to novelties,” added Biddle, “there’s Guarda. 
It’s her first appearance in America.” 

“Bosworth can hear Guarda when she comes to Now 
York next month,” said Billy. 

“Yes,” admitted the chairmen and subordinates, in 
rueful chorus. 

“Of course, gentlemen,” continued Billy, with grand 
condescension of manner, “I shall do the best I can for 
you in what I write about the festival. I hope sincerely 
that you will be successful ; but if you want to enlist the 
attention of serious critics and raise your enterprise to 


The Song and the Singer. 55 

the dignity of a national event you must bring on new 
works.” 

It was not the great Mr. Bosworth who spoke thus 
oracularly, but was it not to be supposed that these were 
the reflections of his sentiments? At all events, this was 
a New York newspaper man — pardon me, journalist 
should be the word — and he was armed for the time 
being with the pen of the critic. Accordingly the com- 
mitteemen and others were nodding deferentially, as was 
fitting in the presence of so exalted a personage, when 
one of them exclaimed, excitedly, “Ah ! there’s Guarda !” 

The divinity of song was, indeed, walking serenely 
down the aisle on the north side of the hall. Behind her 
went a tall, slender man, whose white mustache, waxed 
and pointed, was startlingly conspicuous against the 
background of his swarthy skin. He carried a large, 
square parcel under his arm, in spite of which his de- 
meanor was oppressively haughty. 

“A-a-a-h !” breathed the committeemen and others, in 
tones of deep satisfaction. 

Led by the president, they hastened down the aisle 
and across in front of the platform to meet the divinity. 
On the way they threw down their hats. Before her they 
inclined their heads to the level of their knees, and 
spread out their arms, holding their palms downward. 
They pulled off their overcoats and laid them upon the 
floor that she might have a carpet to walk on as far as 
the green-room. Silence fell upon the band. Every 
man of them closed his eyes and lay flat upon his face. 


56 


The Song and the Singer. 


Meantime the committeemen and others chanted an 
original greeting, to music composed bv Louis Biddle : 

“O daughter of the round, full moon ! 

Thy slaves beg leave to worship thee ! 

We didn’t think you’d come so soon ” 

But, pish ! tush ! what an irresponsible vagabond is im- 
agination ! All this, of course, is bald fiction. It was in 
Boxford, not Bagdad ; cool, sedate New England, not 
the effusive Orient. The committeemen didn’t lay down 
their coats ; they didn’t say they were slaves, in so many 
words ; the band didn’t cease its cacophonous tuning up. 
In fact, the only man in the band who paid the slight- 
est attention to the divinity was the third bassoon, who 
happened to stand up at that moment and see her. 

“Ach, Gott!” said he to the second clarinet, “I haf 
blaved mit her in Dresden, yah. Ein oper-concert, yah. 
Ach, Gott ! vat a woice ! Yah !” 

Then he sat down and played scales in B flat. 

What really happened, to all outward appearances, 
was nothing more than very cordial and very respect- 
ful greetings on the part of a number of gentlemen to 
a lady in whom they had great interest, and who re- 
turned their salutations with queenly graciousness ; but 
human nature, you know, is the same the world over; 
it is only the superficial manner that differs. If this had 
been Bagdad instead of Boxford, there isn’t a shadow 
of doubt that the committeemen would have carpeted the 
divinity’s pathway with their coats, and to a moral cer- 


The Song and the Singer. 


57 


tainty they would have chanted something like Louis 
Biddle’s song. 

Robbed of its eastern picturesqueness, the scene, nev- 
ertheless, was amusing to Billy Jameson, who viewed it 
from a distance. 

“She’s a handsome girl,” he reflected, “but in street 
dress what is there about her to suggest that she is any- 
thing more than, say, the wife of Boxford’s mayor?” 

Nobody paid the slightest attention to His Haughti- 
ness with the square parcel. He looked over the heads 
of the committeemen and saw the librarian taking up 
a pile of music sheets from the edge of the platform at 
the south side. With severe gravity he stalked over to 
that side, laid his parcel beside the piles of music, and 
stalked back. By that time Guarda and the committee- 
men had disappeared in the green-room, and he followed 
them. 

The divinity was delightfully gracious. 

“You do us distinguished honor,” said Mr. Alexander, 
“by being so prompt. We had not looked for you for 
another hour. The conductor himself has not arrived 
yet.” 

“I’ll go find him,” exclaimed an inconspicuous banker, 
and he shot out of the door. 

“It doesn’t matter at all,” replied Guarda, pleasantly, 
and with perfect command of the English language. “I 
have never kept anybody waiting yet, and I do not mean 
to begin dilatoriness in Boxford.” 

“But it is a pity that you should be kept waiting — you 


58 


The Song and the Singer. 


of all persons,” said Biddle, and he smiled that ingenu- 
ous, winning smile that has smothered so many an in- 
dignant protest. 

“I like to wait,” declared the divinity. “A rehearsal 
is such fun ! Don’t you think so ?” 

The question was general, but her flashing eyes rest- 
ed as she finished on those of Horace Clark, and that 
sincere gentleman, greatly embarrassed, blushed, shuf- 
fled his feet, thrust his hands convulsively into his pock- 
ets and stammered that he guessed so ; it depended. 

Whereupon Guarda gave a rippling laugh that said 
plainer than any words could have expressed it that 
Horace Clark had uttered the brightest of witticisms. 
The chairman of the finance committee upheld the illu- 
sion. 

“Mr. Clark, as chairman of the chorus committee,” 
said he, “has probably found that the fun of rehearsals 
is not always unalloyed.” 

Guarda laughed again, and everybody was in vast 
good humor. 

Then the conductor hurried in, winning a race with the 
banker by a neck. 

“I’m awfully sorry ” he began. 

“Don’t,” she interrupted shaking hands; “I’m ahead 
of time. Don’t pay any attention to me.” 

This remark was interpreted, as doubtless the divin- 
ity meant that it should be, to mean that attention should 
not be paid to anything or anybody else. 


The Song and the Singer. 59 

You can rehearse at once, if you like,” said the con- 
ductor. 

“No,” she replied, seriously, “I’d rather not. The hall 
is cold. Call me when it has warmed up.” 

Before she had finished this brief speech three commit- 
teemen were pelting downstairs to the boiler-room to 
have an animated session with the engineer. 

“Well,” said the conductor, doubtfully, “I was going 
to begin with the Tschaikowsky symphony. That will 
take three-quarters of an hour, I fear.” 

“Go ahead with it — do!” said Guarda. “I’ll make 
these gentlemen entertain me.” 

She sat down then, and the bosoms of the committee- 
men who remained were like to burst with happiness. 

The conductor trotted out to the platform and rapped 
on his desk. 

“Symphony,” said he. 

The librarian had not finished distributing parts, but 
the symphony was there, and the players ceased their 
discordant racket to get its pages in order before them. 

In a moment the rehearsal began with one solitary 
auditor. Midway in the great hall sat Billy. His over- 
coat was buttoned to his chin, and he had a programme 
book in his hands. He had glanced at it before, but now 
he had time to study it. Several works, or fragments 
of works, were distinguished by the announcement : 
“First time in Boxford” ; one only had the stirring line, 
“First time in America.” 

The piece thus exalted was an aria composed by a 


6o 


The Song and the Singer. 

foreigner expressly for Guarda. It was understood that 
she had bought the manuscript and all rights for the 
sake of having at least one display piece that could be 
sung by no hated rival. She was to sing the soprano 
solos in a cantata and in an oratorio during the course 
of the festival, and one air from a standard opera at the 
miscellaneous concert ; but she herself banked heavily 
upon the new piece, and the management had not con- 
cealed the fact that it was to be performed. Prices for 
the miscellaneous concert, in which it was to be the lead- 
ing feature, had been doubled. 

‘T wonder if it’s any good?” mused Billy. 

There was little in the programme book on which to 
base a judgment or a prejudice. The words of every 
vocal number except this were printed. Guar da s letter 
from across the sea, in which she enclosed a copy of the 
words, had arrived in Boxford after the programme 
book went to press. 

The symphony wound its majestic way to a conclusion. 
Meantime other persons had entered the hall. There 
was Herr Thingumbob, the burly basso, who walked in 
with such impressive ponderosity that small boys at the 
door were quite sure that he was the whole festival. In- 
timate friends of the distinguished Herr have been heard 
to confess that such was substantially his own opinion. 
Then there came Herr Poppenmann-Humperfeldt, the 
world-renowned tenor, with his quick, nervous stride, 
and that expression of unvarying sadness on his face, as 
if he realized his responsibilities to the full. Poppen- 


The Song and the Singer. 


61 


mann-Humperfeldt went straight to the green-room. 
Guarda stood up, with a charming smile, and held out 
her hand. He raised it to the level of his topknot, 
brought it down with a jerk, and said, incisively, “So, 
ve meet again !” Then he wheeled about and sang a 
tentative scale. “Br-r-r-r !” he shivered, “vat a climate !” 

And there were others ranged along the wall at the 
back of the auditorium. These were favored friends of 
the committeemen, to whom word had been passed that 
Guarda was about to sing her new piece. 


II. 

There is patience that accomplishes its purpose by 
sheer force of waiting; and there is audacity that goes 
to the giddy verge of the reprehensible. I have not lived 
long enough to be sure which I admire the more. 

— The Hermit. 

The conductor left his desk and went in person to the 
greenroom to summon Guarda. 

“Now, if you are quite ready/' said he. 

Her rippling laugh was infectious of ingenuous pleas- 
ure. 

“You are all so very kind to me!" she said. “Really, 
I am falling distractedly in love with Boxford. Come, 
then," and she took the conductor’s arm quite as if the 
event were a performance before a crowded house. 

A dozen seraphic smiles, each concealing a commit- 
teeman, followed her into the hall. 

“Never," said Mr. Doddington, an emeritus member 
of the general committee, who was reputed to have per- 
sonal recollections of three-hundred-and-fifteen annual 
festivals, “never, sir, have we been honored by a guest 
of more charming personality, more winning grace of 
manner, and, I dare say, sir, more mellifluous voice." 

“That will soon be demonstrated," responded a col- 
league. 

Guarda and the conductor mounted the steps to the 


The Song and the Singer. 63 

platform. The fiddlers rapped upon their desks with 
their bows, and the wind players shuffled their feet. 

The divinity bowed to them and bestowed upon them 
the very warmest of her winning smiles. 

Out in the middle of the hall Billy Jameson put down 
his programme book and folded his arms, all atten- 
tion. 

then a most extraordinary thing happened. 

The conductor rapped, said "‘Aria/’ and went to pull- 
ing over the books on his desk to find the score of 
Guarda’s piece. The men in the band looked through 
their respective parts. 

Presently the conductor glanced inquiringly at the 
librarian, who at the moment was standing behind the 
tympani, and the first viola half arose and asked : 

“Vat it is ve blay, hein ?” 

“The aria,” said the conductor, sharply. “Where is 
the aria?” 

The librarian came down through the band. 

“I haf all the parts give out already,” he said, with a 
perturbed glance at the south edge of the platform, 
where the piles of music had been. 

That part of the platform was certainly innocent of 
any forgotten score. 

The conductor turned to Guarda. 

“Of course, you brought the score and parts?” he 
said, with just a shade of inquiry in his tone. 

“Certainly,” she answered; “I shouldn’t be likely to 
come away without them.” 


64 The Song and the Singer. 

She turned to His Haughtiness and beckoned im- 
periously. 

“What did you do with the score?” she asked in Ital- 
ian. 

He answered in the same tongue, indicating the exact 
spot where he had laid the important parcel. 

“You must be mistaken!” she cried. “It would be 
there or on the desks. Think, Giuseppe — where did you 
put it ?” 

One of the second violins at the last desk stood up to 
say that he saw the gentleman put the parcel down. 

“I haf give all der parts out,” protested the librarian. 

The conductor again overhauled the books on his 
desk, and the men in the band did likewise. 

An angry frown came upon Guarda’s handsome face. 
She stamped her foot and turned impatiently to the first 
violin. 

“What a nuisance !” she exclaimed. 

The first violin shrugged his shoulders and rested his 
instrument negligently against his knee. What was an 
aira more or less to him? 

“Ach, Gott !” said the third bassoon, settling back in 
his chair. There was no aria among the parts that had 
been laid on his desk. 

For once the conductor looked helpless. Perspira- 
tion was rolling down the cheeks of the perplexed libra- 
rian. 

Biddle, his features twisted by anxiety, went hastily 
to the front. 


The Song and the Singer. 


65 


*Ts there something wrong ?” he asked, looking from 
Guarda to the conductor, and standing on tip-toe, for 
the platform was high. 

“My music cannot be found,” answered the divinity, 
and she glared at the diplomatic Biddle as if he were re- 
sponsible for the calamity. 

That put him on his mettle. He tried his most killing 
smile on her. 

“Oh ! surely, it must be,” said he, with easy confidence. 

“Then find it !” she snapped. 

To his credit be it recorded that the smile never left 
Biddle’s face. He spoke to the subordinate committee- 
men who were gathering about, each with his own ex- 
pression of infinite distress. 

“Go into the property-room,” said Biddle, “and the 
dressing-rooms, and the library, everywhere, and look 
for the prima donna’s music. It is here somewhere, of 
course.” 

He went with them. They opened closets, looked 
under overcoats, rummaged the entire collection of 
works that were to be done at the festival, and returned 
to the front, empty-handed. Meantime Guarda had 
stood, a very queen in her petulance, disdaining the chair 
that the worried conductor had offered her. There was 
a spot of bright red on each cheek that anybody would 
have known was not put there by artifice of the toilet. 

Billy arose and strolled down to the platform, where 
the distressed committeemen stood with their heads 


66 


The Song and the Singer. 


thrown back on their shoulders to look up at the singer 
and the conductor. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked. 

The question was addressed particularly to Biddle, 
who was always recognized by “visitors from a distance” 
as the best purveyor of official information ; but Biddle 
was trying to soothe Guarda, and it was Mr. Alexander 
who answered. 

“The prima donna’s music has disappeared in the 
strangest way,” he said. “We don’t know what to make 
of it.” 

“Ha !” said Billy, “what an item !” 

Biddle heard and wheeled suddenly about. There was 
a look of consternation on his pale face, but it was al- 
most banished immediately by his ready smile. 

“Have mercy on us, Mr. Jameson !” he said. “This 
missing piece was our only novelty ” 

“Which makes the news all the more interesting,” in- 
terrupted Billy, with equal suavity. 

Mr. Alexander looked as if he wished the visitor from 
a distance had not been invited to attend the rehearsal. 
But he, too, was a diplomat. 

“I suppose you’ll have to print something about it in 
duty to your paper,” he said ; “but I do hope you’ll make 
as little of it as possible.” 

“See here, Mr. Jameson !” cried Biddle, making a des- 
perate effort to be gay, “aren’t you susceptible to brib- 
ery?” 


The Song and the Singer. 67 

‘Tin afraid not,” replied Billy, good humoredly. “I 
brought cigars with me.” 

The committeemen tried to look pleasant, but they 
made a sorry failure of it. 

“This gives us an awful black eye,” sighed Biddle. 
“Our only novelty ! If it had been the Beethoven sym- 
phony, you see, it could have been replaced in time.” 

“Oh, pshaw!” responded Billy, “you'll find the thing.” 

He went back to his seat, for the conductor was rap- 
ping and Guarda was sweeping majestically from the ball. 

The rehearsal proceeded. For an hour the commit- 
teemen went frantically hither and yon, all bent on the 
same fruitless quest, to discover that music in some un- 
expected place. They buttonholed one another from 
time to time to ask what they should do about it. Of 
course, an aria from a standard opera could be substi- 
tuted, and in all probability the audience would be as 
well pleased. “For,” said the committeemen, quite 
truthfully, “it is Guarda they pay to hear, not the music.” 
But to confess that they could not give the dear public 
the only promised novelty was a bitter pill, to none more 
bitter than to Louis Biddle, chairman of the programme 
committee. To him went Billy at the end of the re- 
hearsal. 

“Found that music?” he asked. 

“No,” replied Biddle, his hard worked smile all awry. 
“IT 1 give you a headline for your story about it — ‘Miss- 
ing Music.’ How’s that for alliteration ?” 

“The alliteration is all right,” said Billy, “but let me 


68 The Song and the Singer. 

make a suggestion. I’ve got an idea that I think may 
interest you.” 

“For heaven’s sake, spring it !” cried Biddle, grasping 
at straws. 

Billy led the distressed programme-maker into a cor- 
ner. 

“This music that has disappeared was an Italian piece, 
I take it,” said Billy. 

“Yes.” 

“Well, what’s the matter with putting in place of it an 
Italian aria that never has been heard anywhere ? The 
audience won’t know the difference, for, luckily, the 
words haven’t been printed in the programme book. I 
know of just such a composition,” Billy went on, rapidly, 
for Biddle’s eyes were glowing with interest. “It was 
written by a young fellow in New York as a kind of an 
experiment in the style, don’t you know? It’s a stunner ! 
I’ll bet my head that as music it’s a hundred per cent 
better than the thing that has been lost. I can get that 
piece here by midnight ; Guarda can look it over, learn 
it; the band can rehearse it to-morrow, and there you 
are. Nobody will know the difference, for we’ll keep the 
information to ourselves.” 

“By jove! Mr. Jameson, but that’s a luminous idea!” 
exclaimed Biddle, in a tone hardly above a whisper. 
“We can give it out that the aria has been found, eh?” 

“Sure ! Guarda left it at the hotel, you know — got 
it mixed with other music, or something.” 

“Yes, I believe it could be worked. But what about 


The Song and the Singer. 69 

the composer — this young man you speak of — will he 
consent ?” 

“Well,” Billy answered, “that’s a question ; but I think 
he will. I’ll use what influence I have with him for the 
sake of the festival. I know him pretty well. Of course, 
if you don’t care for the suggestion, I’ll say no more 
about it ; but, really, I shall be sorry to report that you 
had to abandon the one novelty ” 

“Oh, Lord ! don’t mention it ! Let’s see if something 
can be done in the way you suggest. We’ll take it for 
granted that you can persuade the composer. What 
about Guarda?” 

“There’s no sense in speculating about Guarda. You 
can find what her attitude is quickly enough. Go and 
ask her.” 

“Spare me !” gasped Biddle, trying to smile. “She’s 
in a temper that I’ve no desire to face.” 

“Will her temper improve if nothing is done to rem- 
edy the situation? You might tackle her right after 
luncheon. She’ll be feeling better then.” 

“Pooh ! she won’t eat anything till she’s cooled down, 
and that will be a question of many hours.” 

“Then face it now. I’ll go with you, if you like.” 

“Will you?” 

“Certainly. I’ll take the whole brunt of it. You in- 
troduce me and stand by to throw in the soft answers 
that turn away wrath if I get stuck. Will you try it ?” 

The question was unnecessary. Biddle had grasped 
the reporter by the arm. 


70 


The Song and the Singer. 


“Come along,” said the programme-maker. “We’ll 
have it over with as soon as possible. It’s a daring 
thought, and maybe Guar da has just the spirit to relish 
it. I can see that she has some sense of humor.” 

“Then I’ll bank on her surrender. Sense of humor, 
eh ? I’ll work that — well, we can only try.” 

They went to the hotel. Mr. Clark met them on the 
way. 

“Have you ” he began, anxiously. 

Billy nudged Biddle, who did not need the cue. 

“No,” said the chairman of the programme commit- 
tee, “we haven’t found it yet ; but. I’ve got a new idea. 
I fancy it was left accidentally in Guarda’s hotel in New 
York and some other piece brought here in place of 
it. I am going to get her to institute an inquiry by tele- 
graph.” 

“Say,” said Billy, as they went on, “there’s a job wait- 
ing for you in a newspaper office I know of if you can 
keep up that average of lying.” 

“Oh !” groaned Biddle, “I’m equal to most anything in 
an emergency.” 

When they stepped into the hotel lobby Billy excused 
himself for a moment. 

“I want to get something in my room,” he said. “You 
can send up our cards and arrange for the interview 
while I’m gone.” 

Biddle assented to this, and the reporter hurried to 
his room. His eyes were blazing with excitement that 
he had repressed during his conversation with Biddle. 


The Song and the Singer. 71 

He caught sight of himself in the mirror as he passed, 
and noted the symptoms. 

“That won’t do,” he muttered. “I’ll spoil the game 
if I show too much interest in it.” 

Then he unbuttoned his overcoat and took from be- 
neath it a square parcel that had been hugged to his 
manly bosom for more than two hours. He put it in a 
drawer of his bureau and laid some shirts over it. 

That done, he composed his features to a dead level of 
indifference and went down to the office to rejoin Biddle. 


r 


III. 

Oh, don’t the days seem dark and long 
When all is right, and nothing’s wrong? 

And isn’t your life extremely flat 

When there’s nothing whatever to grumble at ? 

— “Princess Ida,” W. S. Gilbert. 

When things go awry it is highly advisable that there 
should be somebody at hand upon whom disappointment 
may be vented. This is not always practicable, for some 
of us are not married ; but Guarda had Elise. 

Before starting to the hall for rehearsal the incompar- 
able had instructed her maid to have ready a particularly 
fetching costume to be donned as soon as the trial was 

over, for Mr. Alexander was going to take her for a 
drive around Boxford. At noon, Guarda had said, and 

Elise had the garments ready at eleven, for Elise was 
no sluggard. 

It was two minutes past eleven when Guarda arrived 
at her suite in the hotel. The obsequious elevator boy 
opened the door for her, and she strode in. At the mo- 
ment Elise was bending over a chair whereon lay a cloak 
that she was brushing, and before she could turn to 
greet her mistress Guarda was at the further window, 
yanking off her gloves. 

“Ah ! madame,” said Elise, “you quite take the breath ! 
It will be a long half hour before returns my dear 


The Song and the Singer. 


73 


madame, I was thinking. Ah, well ! it was a good re- 
hearsal, was it not?” 

“There was no rehearsal,” responded dear madame, 
explosively. 

“No?” And the surprise of all Gaul was in the tone. 
“What then? Is it that the conductor was a beast? Did 
he dare ” 

“The conductor couldn’t help himself, I suppose. My 
aria has disappeared. What are these things here for?” 

“These things” were the garments that Elise had been 
instructed to have ready. Guarda had turned from the 
window, throwing her gloves upon the floor. 

“Madame is to drive at noon,” responded Elise; 
“madame told me ” 

“Madame will not drive !” 

“Not drive?” 

“I will not ! Take those things away. Get them out 
of my sight. Oh ! was there ever such a stupid ” 

“Madame is thinking of the conductor? Or perhaps 
the manager ?” murmured Elise, half-inquiringly, as she 
began tranquilly to remove the objectionable garments. 

“I am not thinking of the conductor, or the manager, 
or the noodles who divide the management ! I am think- 
ing of you !” 

“Ah !” said Elise, with no shadow of irony, “madame 
does me too much honor.” 

Madame towered, helpless for the moment, in her 
rage. She knew Elise, and, what is more to the point, 
Elise knew her. Never had there been the like of this 


74 


The Song and the Singer. 


to disturb the prima’s equanimity, but there had been 
other things such as fall to the lot of all great vocalists, 
and the maid had learned to take the storms that fol- 
lowed as a part of the business. 

“La !” she would have said, if she had been put to it, 
“what does madame pay me for?” 

So Elise calmly put away the garments that she had 
made ready, and Guarda, after a furious glance at her 
unterrified menial, went to pulling over music that lay 
on the pianoforte. In fact, Elise was deeply troubled. 
It was a serious matter, this unexplained loss of im- 
portant music. She was not only concerned about it, 
but curious. 

• 

“Madame has lost her music?” ventured the girl, after 
the garments had been put away. 

“No!” cried Guarda, all out of patience, “but some- 
body has lost it for me.” 

“Perhaps m’sieu ” 

“Send him to me !” 

“Yes, madame.” 

Elise went forth disappointed. She had received no 
real light on the matter. Willingly would she have en- 
dured scolding and tyranny for the sake of information 
that might drop from between the lines, and it was not 
long before she had her fill of both ; for, after the visit 
of m’sieu to the prima’s parlor, Elise was recalled and 
put to no end of preposterous tasks for the single pur- 
pose of relieving the incomparable’s overstrained nerves, 


The Song and the Singer. 75 

all of which was unalloyed joy for the well-seasoned 
menial. 

In response to Guarda’s command, His Haughtiness 
came, but, ah ! my countrymen, how was the mighty 
humbled ! That military bearing, that inscrutability of 
countenance, that bristling symbol of dignified years 
upon the upper lip — these availed him nothing. In vain 
he held out his hands, shrugged his shoulders in depre- 
catory gesture, and protested that he had taken the aria, 
score and parts, to the hall, and laid them, quite in the 
usual way, with the other music set out for rehearsal. 

He should have held to it until the librarian took it 
from his hands ! Did he look into the parcel to see what 
it was he was carrying? No. That was it — take things 
for granted ; never assume the least ITEM of responsi- 
bility, but permit her to suffer mortification — PAH ! let 
him get out of her SIGHT ! Go to his room, she told 
him, and stay there till DINNER TIME. 

His Haughtiness protested by not so much as a sigh, 
but turned away, going not to his room, but to the hotel 
billiard-hall, where he consumed a score of cigarettes, 
and watched the representatives of Boxford’s leisure 
class playing bottle pool. 

By noon, what with her temper and her industrious 
efforts to soothe it at the expense of Elise, Guarda was 
well-nigh exhausted. It wanted but one more stroke, 
the curt dismissal of Mr. Alexander when he should 
come to take her to drive, and then she would go to 
bed and have a good, hard headache, just to spite her- 


76 


The Song and the Singer. 


self, and the festival, and everything. Elise brought her 
two cards. She saw Biddle’s first, and threw it con- 
temptuously back upon the salver. The other lingered 
between her thumb and forefinger for a full half minute. 

Shall we say just what it was that wrought a sudden 
and complete change in the prima donna’s demeanor, 
as well as in her mood? It was not the name of Mr. 
William E. Jameson ; that she had never seen or heard 
of before ; but down in the corner, in small, neat type, 
were words of momentous import — the name of Billy’s 
paper; and that the prima donna had heard of a great 
many times. 

“I will see them,” she said, and Elise conveyed the 
message to the bellboy. 

In due course, then, behold Louis Biddle and Billy 
Jameson in the presence of the incomparable. 

“Have you found my score, Mr. Biddle ?” asked 
Guarda, in a tone of sorely tried but never yielding pa- 
tience. 

“No — not yet,” replied Biddle, his smile industriously 
at work ; “but there is hope. We have come to convey it. 
Permit me to present,” and so forth. 

Guarda gave Billy her hand most graciously. 

“I can quite understand,” said he, by way of turning 
from conventional phrases, “that you have no wish to 
see a stranger at this time.” 

“On the contrary,” she responded, “it is very kind of 
you to call. I think I saw you at the rehearsal” — she 


The Song and the Singer. 


77 


paused for a prettily forced laugh — “the rehearsal that 
didn’t rehearse.” 

“I was there, and awfully sorry for you. Am I to un- 
derstand that the music has not been found?” 

“Not a trace of it. It is provokingly mysterious. I 
don’t know what I am to do. Tell me, Mr. Jameson.” 

Biddle’s eyes glowed hopefully. He had not antici- 
pated that she would open the way to Billy’s proposi- 
tion ; but the reporter was too wary to enter at once. 

“Can’t you substitute something for the missing num- 
ber?” he asked. 

“I shall have to,” she replied, “but it is so annoying 
to give up the piece that was announced. I dislike to 
put on a hackneyed song, and, above all, to go before 
an audience with an apology.” 

“There is no need to do so, Miss Ward — pardon me,” 
and Billy tried to blush. He failed utterly to charge his 
cheeks with color, but he did manage to look embar- 
rassed. “You see,” he added, hastily, “your Italianized 
name doesn’t lie so close to my lips as that under which 
I first had the pleasure of hearing you. First impres- 
sions are hard to overcome, Madame Guarda, and when 
I think of you I always associate with you the name 
under which you sang so charmingly as Siebel, three 
years ago.” 

Ah, Billy! you have much to answer for! The un- 
blushing rogue never had heard the prima donna sing, 
never had set eyes on her before this blessed morning; 
but he knew, as did all who kept the run of musical 


78 


The Song and the Singer. 


events, that Miss Julia Ward, after her one trial appear- 
ance in New York, for which she had paid the manage- 
ment a handsome price, had gone to Europe, and that 
the incomparable Giulia Guarda was she of whom he 
had heard his friend, Herbert Ordway, speak reminis- 
cently as one in the cast of the first opera he ever heard. 

The incomparable was anything but offended. 

“Don’t apologize, Mr. Jameson,” she said; “it’s like a 
breath of home air to hear my old name spoken in so 
pleasant a way. You were about to say ” 

“That I think you can keep your engagement with 'the 
public just as well as not — that is, if you don’t mind play- 
ing a good joke on the public.” 

“A joke?” and Guarda sought vainly for illumination 
in Biddle’s persistent smile. “You mystify me, Mr. 
Jameson.” 

“That’s because I haven’t made my suggestion yet.” 

Billy had been feeling his way, all unknown to 
Guarda ; he had been sounding her, «and now he plunged 
into his scheme, arguing it as he had argued with Bid- 
dle, and maintaining ever that he was moved by warm 
interest in the festival. Guarda looked him straight in 
the eyes as he went on and never interrupted. 

“Is this composer a friend of yours, Mr. Jameson?” 
she asked, when he had finished. 

“Yes,” he answered with engaging frankness and per- 
haps some relief that he could speak the truth for once, 
“an intimate friend, or I shouldn’t know about the piece 
and wouldn’t venture to recommend it. Of course, you 


The Song and the Singer. 


79 


must understand that I don’t want my recommendation 
to weigh for anything. I merely offer this suggestion 
as a way out of an unpleasant dilemma. You will judge 
the piece for yourself, and if it doesn’t suit, have an apol- 
ogy published, let the story of the loss get into the 
papers, and sing an air from ‘Trovatore,’ or any old 
thing.” 

“What if somebody in the audience should recognize 
the substitute?” 

“If that were possible, my suggestion would be value- 
less. This aria has never been displayed, not even to 
Mr. Ordway’s friends. He has kept it to himself for 
some reason that I can’t fathom. In the first place he 
is the incarnation of modesty, doesn’t know how to push 
himself, don’t you know — a genius and a thoroughly 
good fellow. Why ! he even speaks kindly of his land- 
lord.” 

This testimony to the beauty of Ordway’s character 
seemed to be lost on Guarda, but Biddle chuckled. The 
prima was still in doubt. 

“If he keeps it to himself,” she said, “how do you 
know so much about it ?” 

“Oh ! I surprised him at it and simply made him reel 
it off to me. I give you my word of honor that it’s 
worth hearing ” 

“That is wholly unnecessary,” Guarda interrupted. “I 
should not dream of disputing your judgment, though of 
course a singer must decide for herself whether or not 
a song is suited to her.” 


80 The Song and the Singer. 

“Certainly. I merely suggest that you hear the 
piece.” 

“But would the composer — Mr. Ordway, did you say ? 
— would he consent to let his music be performed with- 
out credit to himself?” 

“Could any composer decline if Guarda were to be the 
singer ?” 

“Why! What a past master of flattery you are! 
There’s no resisting such an appeal. Tell me, honestly, 
Mr. Jameson, do you want me to sing your friend’s 
aria?” 

The guilty rogue came near to blushing then. The 
^question lay on the very borders of suspicion, but he 
kept his head and perceived that the one safe course was 
to answer truthfully. 

“Yes,” he said, “under the circumstances I should like 
it very much.” 

“Very well,” said she, “you may send for him and I 
will look over his composition. When can he be here ?” 

“By the end of tonight’s concert.” 

“Will you bring him here, then, at eleven o’clock?” 
Billy said he would, and the men arose. 

“This,” said Biddle, “will be managed by telegraph. 
Now we will give out the impression that your music 
was left in New York, and that it has been sent for.” 

“Oh, dear!” laughed the prima, “who would have 
thought that so much craft lurked in Boxford ?” 

She shook hands with them both, and to Billy she 
said, “Whatever comes of this, Mr. Jameson, I am 


The Song and the Singer. 81 

obliged to you for your kindness. It has been very 
good of you to try to help me in this annoying diffi- 
culty.’ , 

At the very moment they were departing a bell boy 
came with Mr. Alexander’s card, and Elise was required 
again to get out the costume that had been condemned 
to remain invisible to Boxford. Madame had changed 
her mind, which Madame had an undeniable right to do. 

“Say !” exclaimed Billy, gripping Biddle by the arm, 
as they walked down stairs, that process being consid- 
erably speedier than transit by elevator. “Say ! but isn’t 
she a stunner! Eh? Isn’t she, now?” 

“Yes,” replied Biddle, diplomatically; “I should say 

_ _ )> 
so. 

“Bosh ! Where’s your enthusiasm — all gone into ad- 
vance press notices? Huh! You haven’t boomed her 
half enough, I’m sure of it. Oh, there’s one paper I 
could mention that will speak well of Guarda, especially 
if she does Ordway’s aria. She’s got me. She can put 
her shoes in my trunk. I’m clean gone. Come and 
have something.” 

Billy was dragging Biddle toward the barroom, a 
place that discreet gentleman would have entered only 
if bent on social suicide. 

“No, thank you,” said he; “I must keep my breath 
pure for the inevitable struggles with other vocalists 
later in the day.” 

“Try a clove,” suggested Billy. “No? Well, I admit 
that it’s about as clear a give-away as rum. Sorry for 


82 


The Song and the Singer. 


you, but you’ll excuse me ? Make me out a list of adject- 
ives that you’d like to have applied to La Guarda and 
I’ll run them in my reports every night. If you find 
that music before the last train comes in from New 
York, you must let me know.” 

Biddle promised to do so and departed, glowing with 
gratitude to the reporter. Billy went to the barroom 
alone. He hastened his drink that he might go to the 
telegraph office and send a dispatch to Ordway. 

“Take next train for Boxford,” he wired ; “bring Ital- 
ian air, full score and parts. Will meet you.” 

“That will bring him,” Billy reflected, “and with him 
will come the real struggle. If he should get into one 
of his high-and-mighty, obstinate fits, there’ll be no 
doing anything with him. Confound him ! He must 
consent. I’ll make it a personal matter. He’s got to 
do it for me. If Guarda shouldn’t fancy his piece — but 
she’s got to ! I wish he was here now.” 

The complex operation in wiliness renewed Billy’s 
thirst, and after the telegram had been sent he returned 
to the barroom. 


IV. 

If on my theme I rightly think. 

There are five reasons why men drink: 

Good wine, a friend, because I’m dry ; 

Or lest I should be bye-and-bye, 

Or any other reason why. 

— John Sirmond. 

Ordway was more than amazed by Billy’s telegram. 
That his friend had gone to the Boxford festival he knew, 
and he had been greatly tempted to go with him ; for, 
aside from the music to be heard there, Boxford was 
not many miles from East Wilton, where Mrs. Ordway 
still lived ; but the musician could not afford the luxury 
of a visit home at this time. Music, as a vocation, in 
New York, had not been as generously lucrative as Billy 
had prophesied. For reasons that not even the keen 
reporter could grasp fully, the city had failed to recog- 
nize that a genius of the first rank had condescended to 
reside in town. It may be that if Billy had lived longer 
he might have discovered that even if the city had rec- 
ognized the genius within its walls it would have con- 
demned him to starvation. 

Not that Ordway had suffered unduly. Who, with an 
eye single to art, embarks unknown upon a career in a 

83 


8 4 


The Song and the Singer. 


great city deserves privation. Dispute the proposition 
with kindly sentiment, if you will ; privation will be his 
share, whatever your estimate of his deserts. It has 
been intimated that opinions might differ as to Ordway’s 
genius. That is ever the rule, and the chronicler of 
some portion of Ordway's career does not arrogate to 
himself the high authority to fix his just place in the 
ranks of contemporary composers. Let it be sufficient 
that up to this time, when the Boxford Festival was on, 
there were at least two persons who believed in him. 
One was Billy Jameson, and the other was Herbert Ord- 
way. The first believed unreservedly ; the second with 
certain clinging distrust and apprehension. 

The first effect of the telegram was to send Ordway to 
his closet, from whence he took the composition re- 
ferred to. He sat down with the orchestral score in 
front of him and silently read it through. It appealed 
to him as when first he sketched it, more than three 
years before. The winning charm of its melodies was 
strong upon him, his blood chilled as he felt its exquisite 
modulations. To him it seemed impossible that such 
music should not meet with instant approval — and that 
seemed a cold way of putting it. Approval ? Of course ! 
Any musician could perceive that it was well done as a 
matter of workmanship ; but that which is dearer to the 
creative spirit than details of construction, the emo- 
tional content, that which proceeds from gift rather than 
from attainment — was not that there in such abundance 
that listeners could not but be moved, exalted, carried 


The Song and the Singer. 85 

with the composer to his own heights of prophetic 
vision ? 

Thus he felt as he rebelled against any possible criti- 
cism, for this, as it stood, was what he wanted. Lapse 
of time had not diminished its force. It was now, as it 
had been from the beginning, a spontaneous song of his 
soul, an expression of his highest self, complete within 
the limitations of its form. 

Again he felt the bitter sting of that first attempt to 
set its beauties forth for the appreciation of another. 
Barbara had not understood it ! How could any human 
being fail to be stirred by it even under imperfect inter- 
pretation? The experience had had its value. Never 
again would he take such risks. Never would he attempt 
to arouse in others the impressions that were clear to 
him in his imagination, without those resources that are 
designed to serve as the manifestations of imagination, 
that is, a perfect voice and complete orchestra. 

That oft-repeated resolution, which, in this instance, 
had been broken only, as Billy had said, by the fact that 
the reporter had entered unperceived on an occasion 
when the composer was running over the piece, brought 
his mind around to the telegram. Billy knew his 
crotchets. Could it be possible that he would send for 
him and the piece for anything but a performance? 
Hardly, but could it be further possible that that re- 
sourceful champion had actually managed to arrange for 
a performance at the Boxford Festival? It was all un- 
thinkable, and yet, as Ordway packed his grip, his fancy 


86 


The Song and the Singer. 


dwelt on performance, he dreamed of swinging a baton 
over the superb orchestra assembled for the Festival, he 
heard a really great voice and, yes, he heard the tumult 
of applause at the end. 

It was half-past ten when he stepped from the train. 
At that momentithe audience was leaving the Festival 
hall at the conclusion of the first concert, but there was 
Billy, come to the station to meet him. The reporter’s 
open overcoat showed the splendor of his evening dress, 
and Ordway smiled, remembering suddenly an occasion 
when Billy had protested that he never “dressed” when 
his participation in a musical event was merely profes- 
sional. Billy was trying to see six car platforms at 
once, and therefore he failed to see Ordway till the com- 
poser grasped his hand. 

“Ah,” said Billy, gravely, “I banked on you. I banked 
on her sense of humor. That did the business, that and 
a spice of respect for the power of the press. Bring 
the music?” 

“Yes,” replied Ordway, and his heart, that had been 
quivering with expectancy, was deathly dull and heavy.. 
The lights in the station were not so dim that he had 
not perceived at first glance the unwholesome gleam in 
Billy’s eyes. In these three years Ordway had learned 
to recognize that signal light. The noises of the station 
were not so strident that he failed to detect the painfully 
distinct enunciation that marked Billy’s speech on this 
occasion. The confusion of many persons moving 
hither and yon was not great enough to interfere with 


The Song and the Singer. 


87 


Billy’s rigidly steady gait. All these were manifesta- 
tions of something that was regretted by more than 
Billy’s most intimate friend. 

“Come on, then,” said Billy ; “I have a cab waiting for 
us.” 

Another evidence of the same. That was Billy’s way 
when he was not himself. He once rode through Cen- 
tral Park at four o’clock A. M., the sole, pompous occu- 
pant of a carriage to which, at his solemn insistence, 
four horses had been harnessed. Poor Billy ! what fun, 
forgotten next day, you thought you were getting out 
of life at sundry times ! 

So, then, thought Ordway, this sensational trip to 
Boxford was to be attributed to a freak of disordered 
fancy ! That was disappointing, regrettable, but unhap- 
piness on that score vanished speedily before the greater 
misfortune — that Billy should have allowed himself to 
get into this condition. They had not gone half way 
across the station before Ordway rejoiced in a grieving 
way that he had come to Boxford. He could take care 
of Billy. On at least one previous occasion he had saved 
Billy from disgrace by writing a report for him that 
passed muster with the night city editor. This would 
be a simple matter now, with familiar music to chronicle 
in a brief telegram. 

“Billy,” said Ordway, when they were in the cab, 
“have you sent your dispatch ?” 

“Ten minutes before your train came,” replied the 
reporter, promptly. “Wrote it in advance this after- 


88 


The Song and the Singer. 


noon, held it till the concert was almost over, and filed 
it on the way to the train.” 

Ordway sat back with a sigh of relief. 

“What am I here for?” he asked. 

“Opportunity of your life,” said Billy. “Sense of hu- 
mor did it. Few women have it to such a marked de- 
gree.” Billy’s adamantine gravity yielded suddenly to 
a series of extravagant chuckles. Fie went on speaking, 
his enunciation failing him somewhat : “Puzzled public, 
smiling singer, carping critics captivated ! Oh ! it’s so 
damn funny it’s a pity I can’t write it up. Applause lav- 
ished on supposed foreigner calmly taken by Bert Ord- 
way incog. Never was such a joke, and she sees it. 
Tickles her. Bert, old fellow, it’s the op — op — pop’tu- 
n’ty of your life !” 

“I don’t see it yet,” said Ordway, perceiving the faint 
trail of an idea in Billy’s maundering. “What’s the 
joke? Or, first, who is she?” 

“Guarda, your Miss Julia Ward, you know.” Billy 
was grave again, his utterance slow and distinct. “She 
lost her aria, an Italian thing made to her measure. 
Doesn’t want to substitute an old thing, and your piece 
can go on in place of it.” 

“She lost her aria? Flow could that happen?” 

“If she knew, don't you s’pose she’d find it?” 

The cab stopped at the hotel entrance. 

“We’ll go to your room to talk it over, I suppose?” 
said Ordway. 


The Song and the Singer. 89 

“Yes, a few minutes,” replied Billy. “She’ll be wait- 
ing for you inside half an hour.” 

He would have given his driver double fare if Ordway 
had not interposed. They left cabby muttering soft but 
whole-souled imprecations on strangers afflicted with 
sobriety, and went to Billy’s room. 

“Now,” said Ordway, assuming a sharp, aggressive 
tone, “let me understand this. What I have gathered 
of your notion so far is preposterous. To begin with, 
has Guarda lost any music?” 

For reply, Billy took his programme book from his 
overcoat and passed it to Ordway, pointing to an item 
in the bill for the miscellaneous concert. 

“That’s it,” said he. “Thought she was going to re- 
hearse it this morning. The thing disappeared some- 
how and can’t be found. Prima and committee in a 
state of funk and panic. I had a luminous idea ; Biddle 
said so. He’s got sense of humor, too. That’s the 
whole story, Bert; joke on the public and opportunity 
for you.” 

All that was so clear to fuddled Billy was incompre- 
hensible, incredible, to Ordway. For a full minute he 
stood, scowling at the programme. Unable to see how 
he could get deeper into the matter, he asked, “Who’s 
Biddle?” 

“Chairman programme committee,” replied Billy. 

“He knows about this plan, does he?” 

“Yes, but he’s the only one except Guarda. Thing’s 
got to be profound secret.” 


90 


The Song and the Singer. 


“Do you mean to say that this -” he hesitated be- 

tween humbug and deceit, and finally used neither word, 
continuing, ‘‘has the sanction not only of the prima 
donna, but of the programme committee ?” 

“Yes,” answered Billy. “Biddle’s the committee. 
Public won’t know the difference ” 

“And you would have my piece done under another 
man’s name ?” 

“Certainly. Where’s your sense of ” 

Ordway took his friend by the shoulders. 

“Billy,” said he sadly, “if you weren’t — if you were 
yourself I should be deeply offended.” 

Now, there was one point upon which Billy was 
keenly sensitive. Drunk, or sober, he resented any re- 
flection upon his drinking habit. They had once come 
to the verge of a quarrel, these two, when Ordway 
sought to reason with him. Billy was sober then, and 
he gave his friend clearly to understand that he would 
go his own gait, and that the surest way to make things 
worse was to preach about them. And Ordway never 
had preached since. He valued the friendship too 
highly to risk losing it. 

At this time, Billy manifested his resentment, for he 
was not so far gone that he could not perceive Ordway’s 
meaning, by rising, squaring his shoulders, and re- 
marking stiffly : 

“Then you can take offense now, for I planned this all 
before I had taken a drink this morning. And for that 


The Song and the Singer. 91 

matter, I never was more sober than I am at this 
minute.” 

Ordway shut his teeth together to repress the ironical 
retort that sprang to his lips. 

“And I'll prove it,” added Billy, aggressively, “by or- 
dering up a drink now.” 

He started across the room to press the button. 

Ordway leaped in front of him and caught his hand 
before it touched the wall. 

“Damned if you do, Billy !” said he. “Understand 
me, old fellow, if you take another drink tonight I shall 
start back to New York, on foot if necessary.” 

Billy was too astonished at this forcible interruption 
to retort or rebel for an instant. Ordway held him 
firmly, and they breathed in one another’s faces. The 
unwholesome glow in Billy’s eyes became a dangerous 
flash. 

“Well, by ” he began, wrenching away his wrist 

and then there was a knock at the door. 

Both young men were startled. Ordway paled. Billy’s 
lips parted weakly and his knees shook. He grasped 
the foot board of the bed for support. Even he per- 
ceived dully that there was incipient tragedy in this 
break with his best loved friend. 

“I’ll go,” said Ordway, in a whisper. 

A tall, very thin man, with white moustache, immacu- 
late evening dress and military bearing, stood in the cor- 
ridor. 

“La Guarda,” said he, stiffly, “send her compliments 


92 


The Song and the Singer. 


to M’sieur Zhammson and beg to ask for M’sieur Ord-a- 
way. Has ze m’sieur came ?” 

“Yes,” replied the party asked for;. “Mr. Ordway is 
here.” 

“La Guaxda ask to see heem at hees — hees soonest 
convenance, m’sieur.” 

“Very well, in one moment.” 

The tall man bowed punctiliously and departed. Ord- 
way closed the door. This, then, solved all doubts. The 
scheme was no figment of drunken fancy. It was real, 
and the incomparable Guarda, Julia Ward, the heroine 
of his early musical days, was waiting to see him. 

Billy had forgotten the proposed drink and the 
quarrel. 

“I told you,” said he, triumphantly. “All arranged. 
Sense of humor did it. We’ll go to her parlor right 
away.” 

“No,” said Ordway. 

“No?” and Billy looked distressed. “Bert! For my 
sake ! Come, I know better than you that it’s an oppor- 
tunity. Don’t kick over everything I’ve tried to do for 
you.” 

“Listen, Billy! I’ll go, alone. Is that clear?” 

Billy tried to grasp it. “Atone ?” he echoed wonder- 
ingly. 

“Yes. It seems you’ve made an appointment for me, 
and I will keep it. What’s the number of her room?” 

“Ten. But, Bert, why alone?” 

Ordway would not tell him. 


The Song and the Singer. 


93 


“It’s alone, or not at all, Billy,” he said, firmly. 

“All right,” grumbled Billy, “alone it is. Don’t for- 
get your music.” 

Ordway was going to the door, leaving his bag where 
he had dropped it. 

“I don’t mean to take my music,” he said. 

“What !” and Billy was so overcome with surprise and 
disappointment that he sat down on the bed and stared. 

A great wave of warm feeling rushed over the musi- 
cian. He strode back to the bed and grasped Billy by 
the hand. 

“Billy,” said he, pleadingly, “stay here, will you, till I 
come back? For God’s sake, Billy, don’t leave the 
room.” 

“Go on,” responded Billy, pushing his friend away. 
“Don’t make me out a fool.” 


V. 

The applause of a single human being is of great 
consequence. — Samuel Johnson. 

Ordway knocked at the door of number ten. A 
cheerful “Come in” was spoken upon the other side*, 
and he opened. 

Guarda stood by the pianoforte, a brilliant, enchant- 
ing figure in the regal glory of evening toilet. She had 
not had an appearance in the oratorio of the evening— 
that is, not in the technical sense. As a matter of fact, 
she had sat in a box where all could and did see. Her 
name was not blazoned in gilded letters along the front, 
as is the fashion with certain other musical instruments 
in public events ; but everybody knew who she was, and 
everybody stared and thought of the morrow when she 
was to open her melodious throat for the first time in 
Boxford. The estimable person who did her best to 
interest the audience in the soprano airs of the oratorio 
was so bitterly conscious of the attention paid to the 
famous singer that she sang sharp. 

At that first glimpse of Guarda in her parlor, Ord- 
way’s memory reverted to “Faust.” He remembered 
her appearance as Siebel, and a sudden embarrassment 

94 


The Song and the Singer. 


95 


seized him. To his almost complete discomfiture he 
knew that he was blushing. If it had been incumbent 
upon him to begin the conversation they would have 
had a meeting a la Quaker. 

“Mr. Ordway .?” said the prima, inquiringly. 

“Yes,” said he, feeling most uncomfortably that he 
was rooted to the corridor, and wishing devoutly that 
Billy had kept sober. 

“I am glad to see you,” and she advanced, smiling, 
with outstretched hand. “Mr. Jameson spoke in such 
glowing terms about you. I wonder if you appreciate 
what a friend you have in him? I expected him, too. 
Is he too busy to come?” 

Ordway was within the room and the door was closed. 
His self-possession had returned, incited to its sway, 
first, by the business that had brought him there ; and, 
second, by an ingenuous feeling of loyalty to Billy. He 
was no expert in fiction, as Billy was, but she had pre- 
pared the way for an explanation of the reporter’s ab- 
sence. 

“Yes,” he said ; “this is the hour when newspaper men 
are busiest.” 

“I should have remembered it,” said Guarda. 

“He hopes to be excused this evening ” 

“To be sure ! But tell him I am most regretful — sin- 
cerely so, Mr. Ordway. He is such a charming fellow; 
don’t you think so?” 

“Indeed I do.” 

“Tell him to call to-morrow, will you? And now for 


96 


The Song and the Singer. 


our business. I am sure it is very kind of you to come 
all the way from New York to help me.” 

She laughed — that girlish, ingenuous laugh that made 
committeemen dizzy and even soothed the raging 
breasts of conductors. Ordway thought he never had 
heard anything quite so delightful. It occurred to him, 
then, that there had been a grateful, cordial warmth 
in the brief touch of her hand in greeting. 

It came over him uncomfortably that he was about 
to do a most ungracious thing. Her words implied that 
she wanted his assistance. Billy had babbled fool- 
ishly about her sense of humor. Oh ! why had not that 
over-zealous friend put the situation to him in its real 
light? Had Billy persuaded Guarda that the young 
composer could be counted on to sacrifice his dignity 
for the sake of a woman in distress? And, if so, how 
much was it incumbent upon him in loyalty to bolster 
up Billy’s lie? 

He suffered momentary confusion, not from the least 
wavering in his resolution as to his ultimate conduct 
in the matter, but from doubt as to just what was the 
best way to proceed with due consideration for the feel- 
ings both of Guarda and his indiscreet friend. 

“Am I to understand,” he began, lamely, “that your 
aria is still missing?” 

“Yes,” she answered, and there was a glance at his 
empty hands, as if she had just perceived that he brought 
nothing with him. He caught his breath. It was singu- 
larly hard to say what he had meant to say courteously 


The Song and the Singer. 


97 


but firmly. There was a slight, awkward pause, and 
again she helped him. Ah ! how many a blundering 
wretch of masculinity has floundered successfully 
through a conversation because a clever woman led the 
way ! 

“I was terribly provoked,” she said, “and am still 
greatly mystified, but far from inconsolable since Mr. 
Jameson told me about your aria. I would not have 
supposed that a piece of such merit could be had at 
short notice — that is, in America.” 

It was on the tip of Ordway’s tongue to say frankly 
that the piece referred to could not be had at short or 
any other notice for her particular purpose ; but there 
was an unintended sting in the tail of the remark that 
stimulated a retort. 

“May there not be an American writer as well as an 
American singer?” he asked. 

The question was put with courteous pleasantry, but 
the prima perceived the ring of personal pique in the 
tone. She played upon it. 

“I hope so,” she responded; “but in the town where 
I spent my childhood there was a homely saying about 
the proof of the pudding. You have heard it?” 

“I have,” he admitted, icily. 

“And I have not heard your aria, Mr. Ordway. I 
never heard of it until to-day. Did you not bring it 
with you?” 

“It is in the hotel.” 

“And not here J” 


98 


The Song and the Singer. 


Who shall say whether Guarda at this juncture was 
the clever actress, or the piqued woman that seemed to 
be manifested in her mien, expression and tone? 

Ordway felt horribly guilty. He blushed again con- 
sciously, and again it was on the tip of his tongue to 
convey his refusal to let his piece be used, when her 
manner changed as in a flash. She laughed merrily. 

“Come!” she cried; “you are afraid to confess that 
you dare not trust your composition to me ! You think 
I cannot sing it !” 

“Oh ! I assure you ” 

“Don’t deny it, Mr. Ordway.” They had been stand- 
ing through this, and here she tapped him coquettishly 
on the shoulder with her fan. “Don’t deny it; but do 
reflect for one instant that I have not asked to sing it. 
I’m not at all sure that I want to.” 

“Well,” said he, awkwardly, “that should settle it.” 

“Oh, how you try to evade the issue !” and she laughed 
again. “Mr. Jameson has interested me in the song — 
such a flatterer as he is ! If he has flattered your music 
beyond its deserts as much as he did me, nobody will 
want your composition, Mr. Ordway. Oh! I assure 
you, Mr. Jameson’s ready compliments betray him as 
a dangerous person. But I should like to see the piece, 
really.” 

He longed to show it to her ; but he had had similar 
longings with other persons since that disappointing 
episode with Barbara, and these others he had resisted. 

“Do you say this,” he asked, seriously, “irrespective 


The Song and the Singer. 


99 


of any design to use it in the extraordinary way pro- 
posed by my friend ?” 

That, at last, revealed his attitude clearly. 

“Most certainly,” said she. 

“I am afraid you could make little of it — it’s in manu- 
script, you know ” 

Again that disconcerting laugh. 

“You see! You are afraid of me!” she cried. 

“Can you read?” he demanded. 

“Music ? What a question !” 

“I have known singers who couldn’t,” he said, 
bluntly. 

“Now, that’s a challenge ! Come, Mr. Ordway, run 
to your room and get your piece. If I cannot read it 
through correctly at sight, you shall scorn me and all 
the tribe of vocalists forever after ; and if I do read it 
to your satisfaction, we shall be friends, shall we not, 
whatever happens ? Come ! your hand on that ! It’s a 
fair proposition, is it not?” 

Could any man draw back when so lovely a hand was 
held toward him? — when beyond the hand" were spark- 
ling eyes that danced with good-humored raillery and 
personal interest that Guarda herself would have ac- 
knowledged to Elise, or anybody else? For this 
brusque, blushing, strange manner of man aroused her 
curiosity. He was the first she had met since her re- 
turn to America who had not flattered her by word 
or look. But, more to the point, could any unheard 


L.ofC. 


IOO 


The Song and the Singer. 


composer resist such an opportunity to hear a great 
voice in his favorite work? 

It was a grim smile on Ordway’s face as he clasped 
her hand, but it was a smile, and the challenge was 
accepted. He hurried to Billy’s room. On the bed, 
just as he had left him, was Billy, his eyes fixed stolidly 
on the door. 

“Well,” said he, huskily. 

“I’m going to let her look at it,” said Ordway, be- 
ginning to open his grip. 

“Let her look at it!” mumbled Billy, softly. Evi- 
dently he had a vague perception of the wisdom of 
stifling his scorn. “High and mighty to the last ! Is 
there no divinity to shape the ends of an idiot ?” 

Ordway heard and chuckled. He felt in amazing 
good humor, even with his indiscreet friend. 

“Hold your horses, Billy,” he said. “Wait a little 
longer;” and, with the piano score in hand, he hurried 
back to Guarda. 

“Now,” cried she, as he took his seat at once before 
the instrument, “may I ever fail if I fail now!” 

“You’ll have to imagine the orchestration,” he said; 
and, without further preliminary, began to play. 

He had not turned a page before he wellnigh lost his 
fingers in astonishment and delight. Guarda could sing 
— ah, yes ! let there be no misapprehension on that 
matter. The world may judge of her as a woman as it 
will, and certain things to be set down in this record 
may furnish guides to the verdict ; but as to her singing, 


The Song and the Singer. 


IOI 


as the printed page cannot be made to speak, much less 
to sing, it must be taken on the chronicler’s authority, 
and he but voices the estimate of all who had the privi- 
lege of hearing her, that in her day and time none ex- 
celled Giulia Guarda. There was the voice that, when 
you and I have attained the comfortable, conceited, old 
fogey age, we will ‘quote to the disparagement of all 
the younger generation of concert aspirants. 

“Yes, my boy, pretty — but you should have heard 
Guarda ! There was a singer ! — a past mistress of the 
genuine bel canto, my boy ! And a voice gifted with 
that divine attribute of sympathy that would have melted 
you to tears had she sung in Syriac ! Ah, well ! we shall 
never see or hear the like of Guarda again. I shall 
never forget when she sang in ” and so forth, dod- 

dering and blabbing to the end of the chapter. 

Ordway caught his breath and played on. He forgot 
the fantastic conditions of the trial. After the first 
recitation it did not occur to him that the singer never 
had seen the music before. She read notes as one reads 
words ; her phrasing displayed her the finished musician 
as well as the vocalist. She took instant grasp on the 
meaning of the text, and the wealth of feeling she in- 
fused into the poem exalted her to the plane of the com- 
poser’s own imagination. It even seemed to him that 
he had builded better than he knew. 

At the end she waited, like a true artist, for the brief 
postlude. Then she clapped her hands and began to 
dance around the room. 


102 


The Song and the Singer. 


“Glorious! superb !” she cried. “Why, it is ever so 
much better than the piece I lost ! It’s great ! Why, 
Mr. Ordway ! how have you kept this concealed ? 
Ah ! ah !” 

Words were far from expressive enough, and she 
caroled again the brilliant ending, with its high notes 
and trills. 

Meantime Ordway sat with his hands motionless on 
the keyboard, and his head bowed. 

Guarda drew a long breath as she finished again, and 
went close to him. He could feel the warmth of her 
body ; the touch of her dress made him shiver. 

“It is wonderfully beautiful, ” she said, in a low tone 
that vibrated. “Come, Mr. Ordway, is it friends ?” 

He looked up and saw that she was holding out her 
hand. There was the faintest trace of roguishness in 
her searching glance, just a reminiscence of their fan- 
tastic compact. Behind it was sincerity. 

“Miss Ward,” he said, as he took her hand, and, un- 
conscious of his slip, he did not stammer an apology, “I 
think that friend is a weak word for it. I owe you a 
debt of gratitude I can never pay. You have made me 
happier than I ever was in my life.” 

His intense earnestness took her breath away. 

“Why!” she gasped, a little startled it seemed, “I 
am very glad. You may be sure it is a delight to sing 
such music.” 

She withdrew her hand. 

“You must let me have the piece,” she went on. “I 


The Song and the Singer. 103 

admire it more than I can tell you. We will come to 
terms about it after the Festival ” 

“Don’t speak of terms,” he interrupted, wincing at 
the commercial suggestion, and he did not need to pre- 
sent his feeling in greater detail, for she understood him. 

“You will let me use it, won’t you?” she resumed, 
quickly. “It is a shame that you should have to go 
without credit, but we can make up for that later. The 
committee here is so sensitive about any change from 
the announcements, you know. Let the piece pass as 
the one on the programme. Afterwards, in New York, 
and all over the world, I will sing it as yours.” 

“You may do with it what you will,” said Ordway, 
simply. 

“Thank you, ever so much!” 

“When will you rehearse with orchestra?” 

“To-morrow at eleven.” 

“It will be ready for you. Good-night !” 

Did she wonder why he was so abrupt ? 

“Good-night,” she responded. “Will you leave the 
piano score?” 

“Yes; though, God knows, you don’t seem to need 
any further study on it. You sang it as if you had — 
as if you had written it yourself.” 

“Really,” she said, seriously, “that is the finest com- 
pliment I ever received.” 

He was at the door, but he turned and said: 

“I have a special pleasure in this matter, for you were 


104 The Song- and the Singer. 

in the cast of the first opera I ever heard — ‘Faust/ some 
three years ago/’ 

“Were you indeed in the audience ?” she exclaimed. 
“Then I don’t wonder you hesitated to let me sing the 
aria. Siebel was a part wholly unsuited to me. I had 

to take what I could get in those days, you know ” 

“I have not heard it sung better since/’ he inter- 
rupted, smiling gravely; “but you do not quite under- 
stand me. I had not distrust of your ability It 

doesn’t matter. Good-night.” 

He was gone before she could respond. 


VI. 

I have observed that there are two topics that you 
may not discuss with your best friend : the indiscretions 
of his wife ; and his drinking. 

— The Hermit. 

When Ordway was again in Billy’s room, he knelt by 
his grip and began to take music paper from it. The 
reporter still sat on the bed, his fingers clutching the 
coverlet, his eyes staring painfully. He had kept his 
promise, and for that Ordway was thankful. Presently 
Ordway pressed the button on the wall. 

“Going to have a drink, Bert?” asked Billy. 

“No. I want pen and ink.” 

“What for?” 

Ordway stood in front of his friend and spoke slowly : 
“Guarda will sing the aria. There is to be a rehearsal 
at eleven o’clock tomorrow. I’ve got to sit up all night 
to copy the parts.” 

“Copy the parts?” echoed Billy, comprehending 
dimly. 

“Yes. As I never had occasion to use the piece, I 
diin’t copy the parts for the band. It’s got to be done 
now.” 


“All right. I’ll help.” 


105 


106 The Song and the Singer. 

The composer looked thoughtfully at Billy. Had he 
“sobered up” in the interval since the arrival of the train 
from New York? If that were possible ! If only he could 
help ! There was a long, hard task ahead. 

“Do you think you can write a clear musical hand, 
Billy?” 

“Why not? Is it anything more than getting the notes 
down on the right lines and spaces ?” 

A boy called to see what was wanted, and Ordway 
gave directions : Several pens, ink, and a blotter. The 
materials were brought speedily. Meantime Ordway 
arranged the table so that two could work at it, and 
propped the orchestral see -e against the wall, and Billy 
had a moment irv recurrence of characteristic ebullition. 

“So she’s going to sing it !” he exclaimed, as if the tri- 
umph of his scheme had dawned suddenly upon him. 
“The coming American composer permits the great 
prima donna to do his piece. Huh ! Say, Bert, isn’t she 
a stunner, eh ?” 

“Yes,” said Ordway, absently. “I’ll copy a second 
violin part, first, Billy, as that will have rather less added 
lines than most of the others. Then you can see what 
you can do in copying my copy. We can’t both work 
from the score at the same time, you know, and there 
will have to be three copies for second violin.” 

He stopped to examine the programme book wherein 
the composition of the orchestra was set forth. 

“Six second violins,” he added ; “yes, three parts for 


The Song and the Singer. loy 

them, four for the eight firsts — whew! We’ve got a job 
ahead of us, Billy.” 

“If it’s nothing worse than long hours, I’m with you,” 
said Billy. “Hustle, now.” 

Ordway hustled, and as he wrote, feeling the sounds 
of which the notes were the symbols, he heard again the 
exhilarating trial reading in Guarda’s parlor. He thrilled 
again and again at the memory of it. Once, when he 
looked aside at the turning of a page, he saw Billy, as 
before, clutching the coverlet and staring painfully. 

Presently a second violin part was ready. 

“Now, Billy,” said the composer, “I’ll start this for 
you, as I don’t want the heading to betray the author- 
ship, and then you can go ahead. Remember that music 
is more exact than science ; the slightest misplacing of a 
note will result in violent discord.” 

“Pope says ‘all discord is but harmony not under- 
stood.’ ” 

“Pope didn’t know what he was talking about, Billy. 
Pope never wrestled with copyists.” 

Ordway had plunged into a first violin part. For 
some minutes he paid no attention to the reporter, for 
Billy either could make a useful copy, or he could not. 
In either case it would be a waste of precious minutes 
to try to oversee him. Two pens scratched away at the 
paper, one with rapidity and certainty, the other tenta- 
tively. At the turn of a page, Ordway looked around. 
He was just in time to catch Billy’s head, which was fall- 
ing forward to the table. 


108 The Song and the Singer. 

The reporter partly awaked when Ordway stood him 
up and began to help him out of his coat. 

“It’s all right, Billy/’ said the composer, in the kindest 
tone ; “you’ve done your share. I’ll manage the rest.” 

“I wan’ show you one thing, Bert,” and Billy made a 
tremendous effort to pull himself together. He pointed 
to the paper on which he had been at work. “Three 
sharps, see? Key of A. I know’s much’s that. Well, 
it’s so much trouble t’ keep putting sharps in at begin- 
ning of every line that I put ’em all in on firs’ line, see? 
Zn' all ri’?” 

“First rate, Billy. Capital idea. It’s an improve- 
ment in notation that ought to be adopted by everybody. 
Now lie down. It won’t take me long to finish.” 

“I’d like t’ do lot more, Bert. Lemme copy drum 
parts, eh ? Got drum parts done ?” 

With this he collapsed for good. Ordway put him to 
bed. While he was moving a chair in the course of this 
operation, he saw two empty glasses that had been hid- 
den behind it on the floor. Then he understood Billy’s 
painful stare. Every nerve at command had been 
strained to keep awake. 

“He kept his promise and staid here,” thought Ord- 
way, with a sigh, “but he ordered up drinks while I was 
with Guarda. Poor Billy !” 

Before resuming his work he glanced with sad amuse- 
ment at Billy’s copy. 

It certainly had its humorous aspect. I know, for it 
is before me as I write, the one souvenir, manu propria, 


The Song and the Singer. 109 

of Billy Jameson that has come into my possession. 
There is, first, the descriptive heading and mandatory 
direction in the composer’s firm hand ; then an attempt 
at the G-clef sign scratched out, followed by another 
attempt made wrong side to fore. After this, a handful 
of hieroglyphs that might be mistaken for sharps, with 
the time signature, 3 — 4, misplaced in the middle of them 
and carried by carets and leading line, after the manner 
of copy editing, to its place next the clef. Some extraor- 
dinary marks, at least one of which is a blot, extend 
Billy’s effort as far as the entrance of the voice. Ord- 
way, in his own copy, had written in the first words of 
the recitation as a cue to the violinist. When Billy tried 
to copy them, his few remaining thoughts wandered to 
their own fields of fuddlement, and he capped the climax 
of his night’s work with a scrawl that, under study, 
resolves itself into the words : “Sense of humor.” 

Midnight struck from a neighboring church tower as 
Ordway sat down again to his work. Eleven hours left, 
and a little more than one part done. He wondered for 
a moment if he could accomplish it, and then, in a way 
that was wholly his own, began to write slowly and care- 
fully. He knew he would accomplish it. Later his 
hand took on a rapid gait, but it was not under the im- 
pulse of nervous haste. 

He did not note the subsequent striking of the clock. 
It was finished pages that counted for him, not mere 
hours. The night wore on, Billy slumbered, and the 
sheets on the floor beside the composer increased stead- 



no 


BILLY’S SECOND VIOLIN PART. 



The Song and the Singer. m 

ily in number. Once he was dimly aware that a late 
comer was fumbling at the lock of a door near by. Once 
he got up and walked across the room, stretching his 
arms above his head. His back ached. 

The time came when there were periodical visits of a 
person to the corridor who knocked at one door or 
another. 

“Half past five, sir. Half past five.” 

“Six o’clock, sir. Six o’clock.” 

“Half past six, sir, half past six half past six” 

fainter and fainter “half past six” the voice was 

almost inaudible around a bend in the corridor. What 
a popular time for rising half past six seemed to be ! 

It was about then that Ordway thanked goodness 
that the manner in which he had scored his piece gave 
some instruments long periods of silence. A dash of 
the pen, with a figure above, and lo ! ten, fifteen, forty 
measures had been written. 

Necessarily the music sang itself to him as he put 
down the notes all night long and far into the morning. 
The transcription of an inner part suggested the melodic 
outline and the complete harmony. He heard it all, in 
full and in detail. It never tired him. Physical fatigue 
is one thing; exaltation of spirit based upon, belief in 
one’s own music is quite another, and dissipates it. 

Along toward nine o’clock Billy awoke. He looked 
at his friend in a perplexed way for a moment. 

“Hello, Bert !” said he. 


II 2 


The Song and the Singer. 


“Good morning, Billy/’ responded Ordway, without 
raising his eyes from his work. 

Billy sat up and crawled to the edge of the bed. He 
leaned far out so as to look over Ordway’s shoulder and 
see what he was doing. There was a momentary flash 
of intelligence upon his face, followed by an expression 
of profound despair. He tried to shake off this uncom- 
fortable companion of returning sense. 

“I say, Bert,” he asked with forced jocularity, “is it 
to-day, or some time next week ?” 

“Depends on the point of view, Billy.” 

“You’ve been at work all night.” 

Billy turned toward the window where the morning 
sun made a broad, bright splash of cheerfulness. He 
shuddered and leaned his head on his hands. 

“Yes,” and Ordway went composedly on with his 
notes and rests. 

After a moment : “I believe,” said Billy, “that I set 
out to help you, old fellow.” 

There was dismal self-reproach in his tone ; it had in 
it, too, a despairing appeal, a waning shadow of hope 
that his friend could say something calculated to raise 
his self-respect from this dreadful slough. 

“You did your little best, Billy,” said Ordway. “It’s 
all right. Don’t worry about it.” 

“My little best ! Huh ! I suppose it didn’t amount to 
very much as a lift for you, eh ?” 

“Would you like to see for yourself?” 


Don't sentimentalize over me," he said, between resentment and a groan. 



The Song and the Singer. 113 

Ordway paused long enough to hand Billy’s attempt 
at a part to him. 

The reporter’s face took on instantly an expression of 
abysmal shame. Then was renewed for a moment the 
struggle between remorse and pride, pride at this time 
stalking impudently under the mask of “a sense of 
humor.” 

“Well, Bert,” chuckled Billy, hoarsely, “I got some of 
those sharps in the right place, anyway.” 

The sheet of music paper fell to the floor, and Billy’s 
head dropped upon his hands. He chuckled again, 
strangely it seemed to Ordway, who looked up. 

He saw tears falling between Billy’s fingers to the 
carpet. 

The pen spread a long blot on the horn part then 
under consideration, and Ordway was on the bed beside 
his friend. He put his hand on Billy’s shoulder. 

“Never mind, old man,” he said; “you needn’t think 
of me. The work’s most done, and through your efforts 
I have had not only a delightful experience, but, as you 
said, an opportunity ” 

Billy interrupted by pushing Ordway away. 

“Don’t sentimentalize over me,” he said, between re- 
sentment and a groan. “I’m a damned, drunken good- 
for-nothing, and I know it well enough.” 

Ordway stood up, pained, acutely pained. 

“You’re anything but a good-for-nothing, Billy,” said 
he. 

He sat again at the table, but he did not pick up his 


1 14 The Song and the Singer. 

pen, and Billy did not raise his head. A long minute 
followed in silence. Then said Ordway : 

“I’m not going to sentimentalize, Billy, but I am 
going to preach, for you have given me the text, and, by 
the same token, you’ll listen this time without getting 
angry.” 

Billy did not stir. 

Who that has tried it knows that it takes moral cour- 
age of fine as well as strong fibre for a sensitive nature to 
lay down the law to a friend whose errors are those of 
weakness and good fellowship. The composer, whose 
indignant resolution had failed him before the charm of 
an unknown woman at a time when he was in the full 
strength of body and mind, now, when the body was at 
the quivering point of exhaustion, took his courage in 
hand and admonished his life-long friend. A weak man, 
a sentimentalist merely, would have let the occasion 
pass in grievous silence. 

“Billy,” said Ordway, gently, “for the first time you 
have applied that repulsive word ‘drunken’ to yourself. 
That’s the text, and the sermon will be almost as short. 
You’ve got to get a strong grip on .yourself, old fellow, 
for two reasons: your own sake and mine. You are 
interested in me and my career. You can help me. If 
you go to wreck before you establish me, I shall be, I 
won’t say helpless, but handicapped. I need you, Billy. 
I want you to think of that. 

“And one more thing : this, too, on the plain, practical 
side of things and not on the sentimental. Your drink- 


The Song and the Singer. 115 

ing has caused talk. It has made your editors uneasy. 
I met Fatty Miller a few weeks ago. I didn’t introduce 
the subject, but he told me I ought to look after you. 
‘Make him take a tumble to himself/ said Fatty, ‘for the 
time is past when a newspaper man can afford to get 
drunk. The standard/ said Fatty, ‘is higher than it used 
to be. City editors nowadays won’t tolerate the most 
brilliant writer who risks his assignment by getting a 
load on.’ Fatty knew what he was talking about, Billy.” 

The sermon was finished. Billy sat up slowly. There 
was a hard, bitter look in his eyes that sent a new pang 
of apprehension to Ordway’s heart. 

“I won’t say any more, old fellow,” said the com- 
poser, turning mournfully to his work. “Go and have 
breakfast.” 

“Breakfast !” exclaimed Billy, and there was a sug- 
gestion of his own self in the retort. “Are you a human 
being to suggest food to me at this time?” 

Ordway made no response, and Billy went with un- 
steady steps to the wall, where he pressed the button. 
In due course came a boy. Billy held the door open an 
inch. 

“Bring me two brandy-and-sodas,” said he ; “two, un- 
derstand ! And at the same time a pot of hot coffee, 
some fruit and rolls. It’s worth half a dollar to you to 
hustle.” 

The composer bent silently over his work. For a 
moment the notes of the horn part danced before him 
in a dismal blur. Then the transcription proceeded 


1 1 6 The Song and the Singer. 

swiftly, notes and rests, bar lines and accidentals, while 
Billy struggled into his clothes. 

He was dressed when the boy returned with a heavily 
loaded tray. 

“You’ve got to stop long enough for a cup of coffee, 
at least, Bert,” said Billy, gruffly. “Don’t be an unnec- 
essary idiot. Put ’em there.” 

This latter was to the boy, who had deposited the soda 
bottles and the brandy on the bureau and was looking 
inquiringly for a place to set the coffee and eatables. 
Billy indicated a bare corner of the table where Ordway 
was at work. The things were set down and the boy 
withdrew, richer by half a dollar. 

“I’m obliged to you, Billy,” said Ordway, as he 
poured a cup of coffee. 

The reporter did not answer. He was absorbed in 
drawing the cork from a soda bottle. A vigorous pop 
was followed by the clucking of the bottle as the liquids 
mingled. Bniy drained the first long mixture without 
breathing. Without pause he opened the other bottle, 
but when he had emptied it and the brandy into the tall 
glass, he drank it much more slowly. Before it was fin- 
ished, Ordway had placed the tray on the floor and gone 
to work again. 

Then went Billy to the table and laid his hand on the 
composer’s shoulder. 

“Bert,” said he, “that was medicine. You can’t un- 
derstand, but I had to have it. I give you my word I’ll 
never drink another drop.” 


The Song and the Singer. 117 

Ordway jumped up, to the peril of the ink pot. The 
aria, Guarda, the rehearsal, all were forgotten. He 
wrung Billy’s hand hard. 

“Thank God ! Thank God ! I believe you, Billy,” was 
all he could say. 

“There’s a lady waiting for that,” said the reporter, 
gulping and pointing to the incompleted horn part ; 
“likewise, a conductor, and the man with the crumpled 
horn, and a lot of palpitating committeemen. Get a 
move on, Bert.” 

The composer sat down again and fairly stabbed the 
notes into the requisite lines and spaces. 

It was a long time, four weeks at least, before Billy 
broke that promise. 


VII. 

Friendship ! Mysterious cement of the soul ! 

Sweetener of life ! 

— Robert Blair. 

It lacked half an hour of rehearsal time when Ordway 
laid a blotter on the last note of the tympani part, 
pressed it hard, and said explosively : 

“There !” 

“All done?” asked Billy, who had made himself as 
useful as he could, by putting the copied parts in order, 
and now sat on the bed, waiting. 

“All ready for the discovery of mistakes in the copy- 
ing,” said the composer. 

“But there won’t be any, will there ?” 

“It would be a human impossibility to write so much 
without a slip of the pen somewhere. The errors will 
come out at rehearsal. Now, Billy, Guarda said last 
night that she wanted to see you. Suppose you deliver 
the score and parts to her while I get some fresh air.” 

“I should think you’d want to sleep.” 

“After the rehearsal. You don’t mind, do you?” 

“Mind!” shouted Billy; “do you suppose I wouldn’t 

go through fire and death for a chance to talk with that 
118 


The Song and the Singor. 119 

stunning person? I don’t believe you have appreciated 
what a charming, unusual, captivating, altogether su- 
perlative dame it is, Bert.” 

“Perhaps not,” said Ordway, drily. “Don’t let her 
know I had to copy these parts during the night.” 

“You’re such a man of one idea,” continued Billy, get- 
ting the music in shape for carrying. “Head in the 
clouds, thinking in counterpoint, breathing harmony, 
smelling melodies, and all that, that you don’t know 
when a live woman, lovely and lovable, speaks to you. 
But that’s the way of genius. You’re a sad case, Bert. 
If you should ever wake to find yourself a plain human 
being and fall in love, you’d break your neck with the 
shock of it.” 

“Quite likely, Billy. Don’t tell her I sat up all night. 
I’ll be at the hall in half an hour. Will they let me in 
without a pass ?” 

“Tell ’em you want to see me. They’ll make you a 
present of the building.” 

Ordway went out and walked briskly. He was sen- 
sible of fatigue, yes, but never so wakeful. Presently he 
was to hear his work in all its completeness, and again 
that wonderful voice letting itself forth upon strains 
that, till now, had been his alone. From now on they 
would be another’s also, for Guarda sang them from 
within their being, not as an ordinary singer who merely 
touches a work on its externals. 

As he walked Billy’s extravagant transports anent 
Guarda recurred to him, and with the memory a 


120 


The Song and the Singer. 


strange, disquieting thought. Had Billy seriously fallen 
in love with her ? 

For a moment the honest composer could not say 
why that possibility gave him such deathly uneasiness. 
He was somewhat given to self-analysis, which perhaps 
was the wholesome balance to his artistic temperament, 
saving him from gaining too good an opinion of that 
genius his friend lauded so highly and persistently ; and 
now, supersensitive from long toil over his own crea- 
tion, his mind flew from one supposition to another. 
He asked himself if it were selfish reluctance to lose the 
hold he had upon Billy? If he dreaded the break in 
their relations? Or, was there such appreciation of 
Guarda aroused in himself that he feared for her on 
account of Billy’s unfortunate habits ? That was leaping 
so far ahead that he smiled incredulously. 

If the right reason occurred to him, as perhaps it did, 
he dismissed it as equally incredible, for he had ever be- 
lieved himself to be in love with Barbara Kendall. In- 
deed, in moments when time hung heavy, and Billy was 
not at hand to make the atmosphere sparkle, he had in- 
dulged in no little melancholy over what he chose to 
regard as his wrecked life. Wrecked, forsooth, because 
he loved a sweet girl out there in the country who had 
failed to appreciate hm. Now and again he had worked 
himself into such bitterness about it that he had written 
tragic verses of the “Sturm und Drang” order, and set 
them to extraordinary music that nobody but himself 
cared for. 


The Song and the Singer. 


12 


Ah, well ! Herbert Ordway, in those days, really did 
know a great deal of music, but there were some ordi- 
nary matters in human life of which his ignorance was 
vast. 

The upshot of his thought was that if Billy had fallen 
in love with Guarda it ought to be the best thing possi- 
ble for him. Sentiment of that kind, once powerfully 
aroused, might effect a permanent change in his habits. 
If only Guarda would have the good sense to do her 
part in the possible compact and love Billy ! How could 
she help it? Ordway was glad he had sent Billy with the 
music, so that, if the supposition were correct, the in- 
cipient flame of love might be fostered by the meeting 
of the two. 

It is thus that a whole-souled, overwrought dreamer 
dreams his dreams into the misty future. 

Billy, with an impetuosity that should not surprise 
anybody who has made his acquaintance, knocked at 
Guarda’s parlor door without the formality of sending 
up his card. Elise opened, but the prima herself was in 
view, for she sat at the pianoforte, running over Ord- 
way’s aria. 

“Mr. Ordway’s compliments and the score and parts/’ 
• said Billy. 

“Oh !” and Guarda came running to the door. 
“Where is Mr. Ordway? Come in, Mr. Jameson, good 
morning Goodness l” 

She burst into her fetching laughter, and Billy grinned 
sympathetically, but unknowing why. 


122 


The Song and the Singer. 


“Am I ever to see you both together ?” she cried. 
“Really, I am coming to believe that you are one and 
the same which is Jekyll, and which is Hyde?” 

“I’m Hyde, Miss Ward. Don’t make any mistake 
about that. Jekyll’s gone for a walk, lest he fall asleep 
during rehearsal.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“He told me not to tell, but I’m going to, for I want 
jyou to realize what a rare bird it is, don’t you know? 
I told you yesterday that he was a good fellow ” 

“Hyde is a good fellow, too, isn’t he ?” 

“And you’re another! I beg your pardon.” But 
Guarda’s laugh was rippling, and Billy went on, una- 
bashed : “That is it ; he had never offered his piece for 
public performance, you understand, and so when this 
occasion came the orchestral parts weren’t ready. 
They’ve all been copied since he was here last night.” 

Guarda’s astonishment was patent and genuine 
enough. 

“I want you to understand all about it,” continued 
Billy. “He didn’t want you to know how he had to 
work for fear yoti’d feel under obligation to him. That’s 
Bert Ordway. He feels under infinite obligation to you. 
He hasn’t said much, for he doesn’t gabble as I do, but 
that’s the fact. See? You mustn’t let him know that I 
told. It would make him sore against me, and I 
couldn’t stand that, but I want you to know.” 

“How long did it take him ?” asked Guarda, look and 
tone attesting her sincere interest. 


The Song and the Singer. 


123 


“He finished the last note about five minutes ago.” 

“And had not slept at all ?” 

“Not a wink. Just kept his pen scratching away ” 

“And Hyde helped him, of course.” 

There was plenty of color in Billy’s eyes, and a plen- 
teous lack of it on his cheeks to substantiate any fiction 
he might have indulged in on this matter. 

“No,” he said, bluntly, “Hyde went to bed.” Then, 
driven to it by Guarda’s quick glance of new astonish- 
ment, he added : “I tried to help him, but I made such a 
sorry mess of it that I had to stop, for I was hindering 
him. You see, the only notes I ever made before were 
to my tailor, and those I made last night would have 
been equally hard to meet satisfactorily.” 

“I was sure,” she said, softly, “that you wouldn’t delib- 
erately leave such a friend in the lurch.” 

Then the vagrant color hastened to Billy’s cheeks for 
an instant. His readiness of speech nearly failed him. 
A look of mute appeal, or something that seemed like 
it, flashed from his eyes to hers and made her wonder. 

“It must be lovely,” she said with a sigh, “to be such 
friends. I felt almost from the beginning of our talk 
yesterday that you were seizing an opportunity for a 
friend rather than acting out of any interest in me or the 
Festival. I liked you for it.” 

“Thank you,” responded Billy, feeling a distressing 
-mixture of elation and guilt from which his “sense of 
humor” hardly extricated him; for he began to look 
ahead to another discussion of this matter that must 


124 


The Song and the Singer. 

come some time. There was a square parcel in his bu- 
reau that he would have no use for after the last concert. 
“I am proud to call Bert Ordway my friend,” he added. 

Then he wondered at the fleeting expression of sad- 
ness that darkened her features, and he felt that the sit- 
uation was becoming just a bit embarrassing. 

“I have no business to stand here babbling,” said he. 
“This is your busy day, if ever you had one. Can I be 
of any service to you?” 

“Yes,” she responded brightly, “take the score and 
parts to the hall for me. I shall be perfectly sure that 
these won’t be lost if they are in your hands, Mr. Jame- 
son.” 

“Oh !” exclaimed Billy, retreating hastily, “your con- 
fidence in me is overwhelming.” 

Sense of humor was uppermost again, if you could 
judge from the smile that clung to his lips all the way 
to the hall, but there was also a happy satisfaction in 
that, as he believed he had done a good thing for his 
friend by telling Guarda so much about him. 


VIII. 

If music be the food of love, play on. 

— Shakespeare. 

“Aria!” called the conductor, as he wiped his brow 
after a struggle with the “Ride of the Valkyries.” 

The rehearsal was more than half done, and Guarda 
had just entered the hall. A few more persons were 
present than had been there the day before, for word 
had sped from committeemen that the prima had sent to 
New York for her missing music, and that it had ar- 
rived. Ordway stood at the very back of the hall. Billy 
was near, whispering to Biddle. 

Guarda mounted the steps to the platform and 
beamed upon the orchestra. Ordway held his breath ; 
he noticed that her hands were empty. What had she 
done with the pianoforte arrangement? 

The conductor opened the orchestral score, and then 
leaned toward the singer to get suggestions from her as 
to the tempo. She beat a bar with her fingers, and he 
raised the baton. 

Ah! the exhilarating coolness that swept over the 
composer as the physical sense perceived at last what 
had lain so long in his imagination! Those were his 

125 


126 The Song and the Singer. 

harmonies, his conceptions of tone color — and there 
was the most thrilling voice in the world giving expres- 
sion to his melodies! And Guarda was singing from 
memory ! 

Billy noticed this astonishing fact and edged up to 
Ordway. 

“It’s yours, isn’t it?” he whispered, apprehensively. 

Ordway nodded. His lips were pressed together. He 
was trying not to betray his special interest in the piece, 
and he felt as if all eyes were fixed suspiciously upon 
him. Billy marveled. 

“Bert copied the parts by an all-night job,” he said 
to himself, “and she did her share by memorizing it. 
She certainly is a stunner, and how like the mischief she 
can sing !” 

Some of the committeemen exchanged nods of satis- 
faction ; others were content to gape, spellbound, at the 
singer. If they had been brought to the trying ordeal 
of expressing verbally what they felt, it is most unlikely 
that their emotions would have found vent in anything 
more profoundly eloquent than “Golly !” To them was 
no consideration of the subject matter. If you had 
called their attention to the music as such, they might 
have acknowledged sub-consciousness of its existence, 
but they would not have been able to say anything about 
it. It was Guarda they heard. Really, what a deal of 
nerve energy had been thrown to waste in regretting 
the loss of one piece and in devising a way to substitute 
another ! As if the mere music counted ! 


The Song and the Singer. 


127 


There was once a man who declared with all the 
positiveness of deep conviction that an excellent salad 
could be made of excelsior, so be you had the right kind 
of oil. 

The piece was played and sung through without an 
interruption. In that few minutes there was to Ordway 
the revelation of a lifetime. It progressed by distin- 
guishable stages from that first exhilaration consequent 
upon the testimony of his ears to the correctness of his 
imagination. Many a time had he reflected upon these 
effects, laboriously had he contrived them ; and here 
they were, as straightforward and clear as if they had 
come without effort, spontaneously from the will of 
some spirit that might be supposed to unify the orches- 
tra. There was an instant of boyish quaking of the 
heart as an absurd apprehension came over him lest 
those men up there should lay down their instruments 
and protest that this should not be thus and so; and 
then, as they played on, came the second stage — an ex- 
ultant self-justification. The music was not only beau- 
tiful, it was right, it was what he had believed it to be. 

It was after this that the voice of the singer appealed 
to him more as an individual factor than when he re- 
garded it merely as an element in his composition. He 
felt, even more than he had at the trial reading, that 
warmth of emotion for which Guarda’s voice was dis- 
tinguished. Her method he thought of not at all. 
That it lay behind the effect she produced did not occur 
to him. What he did perceive was the fact that she 


128 


The Song and the Singer. 


read into the music meanings deeper than he had im- 
agined; it was as if his own soul had suddenly been 
purified, lifted to heights greater than he had known 
before, and as if it were now calling back to him to rise 
and follow. A duality of impressions that bewildered 
for a moment and then resolved itself into one clear, 
unmistakable fact — a oneness of soul between the singer 
and the maker of what she sang. It was his music, and 
hers ; to him she was speaking through the mediumship 
of his own serenest, loftiest thought. She felt what he 
did, the same emotion, the same transcendent delight in 
the art, the same perception of the poem, the same con- 
viction that here, in this piece, was completeness of ex- 
pression. Therefore, singer and composer having been 
brought by the music to oneness of soul — but Ordway 
constructed no syllogism. There was no therefore in 
his consciousness. All there, as he felt the vocalist 
singing to him, was worship, palpitating worship, and 
the subject of it was Giulia Guarda. 

He did not call it love ; he did not think of it in an- 
alytical detail as the music sped on to the brilliant finale ; 
he was aware merely that a spell of greater force and 
significance than ever he had dreamed of had been cast 
over him. 

And there were false notes in the band. He shivered 
as they cut across his ears, and yet he marveled how tri- 
umphantly the song soared on, Guarda all unshaken by 
this or that discord held stridently against her voice by 
some blundering instrumentalist, or by some other who 


The Song and the Singer. 


129 


was playing faithfully the errors in his copy. Ordway’s 
teeth were on edge with distress at the end, while yet his 
breast was surcharged with adoration. 

“A-a-a-a-a-h !” said the committeemen. Biddle clapped 
his hands noisily and others joined in. Billy smiled and 
smiled. Guarda coquettishly acknowledged the hand- 
claps, that sounded so meagre and thin in the vast emp- 
tiness of the place, and the conductor turned back sev- 
eral pages to try over a passage. It was one in which 
false notes abounded. The discords were quite as ap- 
parent as before. 

“Billy,” whispered Ordway, “I’ve got to straighten 
that out even if I give the whole thing away.” 

His face was alternately red and white, as he walked 
rapidly down the centre aisle to the platform. 

“Can’t you leave it to the conductor, Bert?” urged 
Billy, tagging close behind, and in a panic lest the com- 
poser should say something impolitic. Composers, big 
and little, have been given to that sort of thing since 
the history of music began. 

Ordway did not reply. Guarda, observing their ap- 
proach, concealed her emotion, whatever it was, behind 
a beatific smile. 

The conductor was puzzling over the score and some 
band parts that he had asked the men to pass up. 

“I beg your pardon,” said Ordway, to attract his at- 
tention. 

The conductor turned inquiringly. 

Guarda interposed. “This gentleman,” said she, “is 


130 The Song and the Singer. 

an intimate friend of the composer and knows the work 
thoroughly. He can clear up any doubtful point.” 

“That’s lucky,” said the conductor ; “there are some 
odd effects here, apparently ” 

“The trouble is in the horns.” 

The horn parts were handed to Ordway. He found a 
note that had been changed in pencil by the player. 

“What does he mean by changing that note?” de- 
manded Ordway, indicating the place. 

The conductor conveyed the inquiry to the player 
and reported: 

“He supposed that the phrase must have been in- 
tended to be the same as the one that occurs previously 
in his part. He thought the copyist had made a mis- 
take.” 

“Tell him,” said Ordway, sharply, “to play the part 
as written and think less.” 

Guarda had sudden occasion to press her handker- 
chief to her lips, but her hand was down again in a mo- 
ment, and the full force of her smile was turned on the 
conductor, who gave the necessary instructions. Then 
Ordway, quite as if he had a right to do so, demanded 
the repetition of other phrases. Discord resulted, and in 
two instances he discovered slips of the pen in the parts 
he had copied. Corrections made, he turned about ab- 
ruptly and went back to his former position. The con- 
ductor looked curiously at the first page of the score. 
At the right of the title, where the composer’s name 


The Song and the Singer. 131 

might be looked for, was evidence that something writ- 
ten there had been scratched out. 

“Who ” the conductor began, when Guarda in- 

terrupted with a question about the next number to be 
rehearsed, and the conductor, too heavily burdened to 
bear non-essentials in mind, gave his attention to busi- 
ness and forgot the inquiry he had started to make. 

All through this little episode, Ordway’s features had 
been set in hard, unyielding lines. It was his heroic 
effort to accomplish two things — his share in the deceit 
concerning the authorship of the piece, and concealment 
of the overwhelming sentiment that had possessed him 
relative to Guarda. At the end of the rehearsal his 
expression was the same when Guarda approached him. 
She had been talking with Biddle and Billy. An earnest 
conversation it was, apparently, in the course of which 
the prima shook her head several times. Presently she 
went over to Ordway and shook hands with him. 

“Are you satisfied?’’ she asked. “I mean, with the 
way I do it?” 

“Perfectly,” he answered. 

“That’s a strong word,” said she; “but it sounds so 
polite.” 

“And therefore insincere? Miss Ward, if I should 
tell you all I feel there would be a sensation that might 
be disastrous to the Festival.” 

This was not putting his feeling into plain words, but 
perhaps the woman perceived what lay back of the 
utterance, for her eyes flashed. 


132 The Song and the Singer. 

“Then I wouldn’t say it !” she exclaimed. “Have 
mercy on the Festival, do !” Then her manner changed. 
Raillery gave way to earnestness. “It was and is per- 
fect torture to me,” she said, “to withhold the credit 
you should have, but I think it is best for the present. 
Do you ” 

T am unreservedly content,” said he, “with any 
course you may adopt. I hope you will understand that 
I appreciate as well as admire your feat in memorizing 
the piece.” 

“Ah !” and she laughed a little ; “that was nothing. 1 
didn’t have to sit up all night to do it. I have more 
regard for my voice.” 

He looked at her sharply. Had Billy told? Nothing 
in her expression betrayed more than a chance shot. 

“I shall expect you to lead the applause,” said she, 
“just as generously as if the Italian whose name is on 
the programme had written it.” 

In his characteristic way, he took the remark seriously. 

“No,” he said; “I shall have to leave that to Billy.” 

“Billy? Oh ! you mean Mr. Jameson. How nice !” 

“What is nice? I don’t understand.” 

“Why, Billy, to be sure ! Dear me ! I almost wish 
you hadn’t mentioned it. I am sure I shall forget my- 
self some time and call him Billy to his face.” 

“I don’t think he’d be offended.” 

Guarda laughed and turned away. His Haughtiness 
was standing solemnly near a door. She went to him, 
and they left the hall together. 


The Song and the Singer. 


133 


Then Billy came up. He was depressed in manner, 
a result of his last night’s spree, Ordway thought. Ord- 
way, on the other hand, was highly elated. Now that 
Guarda was gone, he could not wholly repress his feel- 
ings. 

“Come on, Billy/’ he said, taking the reporter’s arm ; 
“let’s go somewhere where we can laugh and throw up 
our hats with safety.” 

It was rather out of the common that the reporter 
made no light response, and again Ordway attributed 
his demeanor to physical and nervous reaction. 

“I hope,” said Ordway, as they emerged upon the 
street, “that you understand how I appreciate your 
thoughtfulness in seizing this occasion for me. At first, 
I confess, I was opposed to the idea. But she sings so 
superbly, what else could I do? No matter. I’m com- 
mitted to it, and I wouldn’t give up the experience for 
the world.” 

“I hope it will be the making of you, Bert,” said 
Billy, glo.omily. “I think she’ll do the right thing in 
time.” 

“You mean that she’ll sing the piece as mine? Of 
course ! She has said so.” 

At this moment, looking ahead, he saw Guarda and 
His Haughtiness on the way to the hotel. 

“By the way,” he added, “who is that long specimen 
with Guarda? He is the one who called at the door 
of your room last night to say that she was waiting 
for me.” 


!34 


The Song and the Singer. 


“That,” replied Billy, with bitter contempt in his 
tone, “is Mister Guarda.” 

“Mister Guarda?” echoed Ordway. Seldom quick in 
catching the drift of innuendo, often the butt for raillery 
because of his serious denseness to what men call 
humor, he did not grasp wholly the significance of his 
friend’s reply ; but his heart sank, heavy with apprehen- 
sion. “What do you mean?” he asked. 

“That he’s her husband,” said Billy. “Haven’t you 
heard her called ‘Madame’?” 

There was a pause, but Billy did not perceive it, before 
Ordway responded: 

“Yes ; but I confess that it made no impression on me. 
I had an idea that she had Italianized her name as a 
matter of professional fashion, and that the title 
‘madame’ was applied from much the same reason. I 
thought she was really Miss Ward. I’ve been address- 
ing her as such.” 

“In private life,” said Billy, “she is Signora Giuseppe 
Napoli. Biddle has been telling me.” 

“What does he say?” 

“Money.” 

“But I thought she was getting the highest fees.” 

“So she is — now. Things were different awhile ago. 
I had the impression — read it somewhere — that she w r as 
a girl of independent means, and that she had taken 
up an artistic career because she had gift and ambition. 

9 

She must have lost her fortune, I suppose, before she 
made financial success with her art. Anyhow, she tied 


The Song and the Singer. 


135 


herself to that wreck. I don’t see, while she was about 
it, why she didn’t pick up a prince, or at least a count.” 

Ordway said nothing, and after a moment Billy 
went on : 

“It does seem to me that the husband of a prima 
donna is about the most useless, utterly contemptible 
animal on the face of the earth ! Think of being re- 
ferred to as ‘the husband of Miss Ward’ ! Huh ! what 
do you think?” 

Ordway laughed, and, so far as Billy could see, there 
was genuine merriment in his tone. 

“Billy,” said he, “there are more fools in the world 
than you could shake a stick at.” 

“That’s an appropriate metaphor for a musician. I 
could point out a fool or two for you if you found your 
baton idle from want of business. But there’s one thing 
you mustn’t forget, Bert.” 

Billy suddenly became very earnest. It was serious- 
ness now of another kind. 

“She can be mighty useful to you, old man. This 
isn’t the only song of yours she can sing. You and 
your piece have made a good impression on her. I’m 
pretty sure of that. Stick to her, Bert. Work her for 
all she’s worth.” 

“Thanks,” responded Ordway; “Til bear it in mind. 
I’ll try now to see if I can make up some of my 
lost sleep.” 


IX. 


How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start 
When memory plays an old tune on the heart ! 

— Eliza Cook. 

Ordway did not attend either of the concerts of that 
day. In the afternoon he slept fitfully, and in the even- 
ing he went to East Wilton. Guarda sang in oratorio 
during his absence. He felt in all honesty that it be- 
hooved him to keep away from her magnetic presence 
and to break the spell that had been cast upon him. 

“I am attending the Boxford Festival,” he told his 
mother. “There is only one more concert that I care 
to hear. I am very tired, and do not want to see 
anybody.” 

That was on his arrival home late in the evening. 
Next morning, immediately after breakfast, he returned 
to Boxford. 

“I am feeling rested,” he said then, “and really ought 
to hear as much as possible. I must take in the morn- 
ing rehearsal.” 

Guarda had nothing to rehearse, and she had no ap- 
pearance in the afternoon concert. Accident favored 
him to the end that he did not see her until she went 
to the platform in the evening to sing his aria. 

136 


The Song and the Singer. 


137 


The last seat in the hall was taken, and there was a 
fringe of men around the walls. It was a gala occasion 
for Boxford. Every inhabitant who had one put on 
his swallow-tailed coat, and there were some who car- 
ried crush hats. The women — but how shall a mere 
man say anything more than that the women wore 
clothes ? A good many of them — the clothes, I mean — 
were cut so as to display necks and shoulders to ad- 
vantage, and altogether the audience made a decidedly 
cheerful spectacle. 

In recognition of his vocation, two seats in the best 
part of the floor had been assigned to Billy. Ordwav, 
of course, occupied one of them. They went down to 
their places when they saw the conductor mounting the 
platform steps. The overture served its purpose of dis- 
tracting attention from late comers, and putting every- 
body into an expectant frame of mind, and the faithful 
applauded it. God bless the faithful ! 

The world at large has never seemed to appreciate 
the debt it owes to the writers of overtures. Few per- 
sons ever hear them, and yet it takes a deal of time 
and some talent to write one. There once was a com- 
poser (he still is, according to last accounts) who took 
careful observations at many performances to find out 
how long it required for an audience to get settled. An 
average of his reckonings came to just three minutes 
and a half, and nothing could ever persuade him to write 
an overture longer than that by so little as one measure. 

Herr Poppenmann-Iflumperfeldt was the first vocalist 


1 38 The Song and the Singer. 

of the evening. He sang something with a high B-flat 
in it, which ninety-nine in a hundred declared was high 
C, and won an encore. I believe the papers said it was 
a “rapturous” encore. Doubtless. It certainly was not 
an “ovation,” for that word, of course, was reserved 
for Guarda. Herr Thingumbob, if I mistake not, re- 
ceived “salvos of applause,” the prima contralto aroused 
a “furore,” and the twitterings of the orchestra in num- 
bers between got away with plain “enthusiasm.” Thus 
six numbers of the programme were delivered success- 
fully over to history, and then, the last before the inter- 
mission, came Guarda. 

Ordway had been trying studiously to enjoy the con- 
cert thus far. He followed the orchestration with 
analytical ear, he observed the structure of pieces that 
were new to him, and he knew that it was really an 
excellent concert ; but he was not stirred by it. On the 
contrary, he grew colder as the evening advanced. It 
was in vain that he berated himself silently for making 
so much to-do in his own bosom over the performance 
of something that happened to be his creation ; the 
trouble lay not there. It was a personal relationship 
that weighed upon him now. 

There was a long pause before Guarda condescended 
to issue from the greenroom. Ordway noticed that it 
was not her husband, but the conductor, who escorted 
her. Radiant with smiles, bowing with girlish pleasure 
to orchestra, chorus and audience, she advanced to the 
front of the platform. A thousand feminine hands 


The Song and the Singer. 139 

raised opera glasses to study her costume. The men 
waited their turn to satisfy their eyes by a nearer view 
of physical loveliness the equal of which not even Mr. 
Doddington could remember in festivals previous. Ord- 
way hardly dared look up. He remembered “Faust,” 
and Siebel, his first large impressions of the musical 
world, the scenes and the atmosphere with which this 
woman were inseparably associated. 

Fie asked himself, Did he love her on that evening 
nearly three years ago? and he answered, No! it was 
then but a curious, boyishly patriotic interest he took 
in her. Now did he love her? It must be that his 
failure to raise his eyes would be noticed by his neigh- 
bors. It might cause troublesome comment. He 
looked up. She stood by the conductor’s desk waiting 
for the prelude, and thus, motionless, she had the “grand 
air” that singers prize so highly. It was the serenity, 
apparently, of perfect command and knowledge. She 
was looking toward that part of the house where at 
previous concerts she had seen Billy’s face. Her eyes 
looked straight into Ordway’s. 

Did he love her now? Yes, hopelessly, but with all 
his heart, he loved her. 

There seemed in the smile which was meant to be 
general, and that was generally accepted by the audi- 
ence, a special message for a fleeting fraction of a second 
to him. Encouragement? Of course — for his art! He 
so interpreted it, and it was a savagely steady glance 
that he shot back at her. 


140 The Song and the Singer. 

The temporary depression which had been upon Billy 
coincident with his discovery that Guarda was encum- 
bered by a husband had disappeared. All this day he 
had been his usual, effervescent self. While the audi- 
ence was still engaged in its share of the evening’s 
performance, which share consisted at that moment of 
a noisy welcome to the prima donna, he whispered in a 
tone of affected deep satisfaction : 

“Now we shall hear some real music.” 

“Shut up, Billy,” whispered Ordway, in reply, twist- 
ing his features into a smile ; “shut up, or I’ll rise here 
and denounce you.” 

Billy chuckled audibly. Probably it was at thought 
of what form his friend’s denunciation might take if 
only he half knew the facts. 

Up went the conductor’s baton, and a hush fell upon 
the house. Ordway was startled by it. He knew it 
was Guarda that the people held their breaths to hear, 
and not his music ; but they would hear it. He fixed his 
eyes upon her during the brief introduction and held 
them there until that world-compelling voice began ; 
then, so strong was the impression that she was singing 
to him, that he closed his eyes and thus remained to 
the end. 

When he looked again she was retiring from the 
stage, bowing right and left and bestowing those match- 
less smiles with unstinted liberality. The audience went 
to such an extreme of demonstration that one might 
have forgotten that it was New England. Such a noise ! 



Up went the conductor’s baton, and a hush fell upon the house. 

See page 140. 




The Song and the Singer. 141 

There was more than hand-clapping. Shouts and cries 
were in the air. 

Ordway sat rigid, his face ghastly pale. 

“Bert !” exclaimed Billy, above the tumult, “do you 
realize that you’re the only person in the house who 
isn’t applauding? — the only one who hasn’t gone crazy 
over it?” 

Gone crazy ! The composer shivered. Then he 
looked hesitatingly at his friend, and smiled; for, oh! 
it was sweet to hear the applause, bestowed, though he 
must know, undiscriminatingly upon the singer rather 
than upon the piece that had been his and was his alone 
no longer. At the worst, it had been his work that 
served as the vehicle for Guarda’s success, and in her 
success he could rejoice only too heartily. For himself 
it was easy to feel, it was impossible not to feel, that 
there was testimony of approval ; and for a moment the 
pain at the composer’s heart became something akin to 
happiness. 

The applause increased in volume, for Guarda was 
coming out to bow. Ordway ventured to turn his head 
and look over the house to see as well as hear the 
demonstration. For a moment his eyes roved around 
the great gallery, for it was up there that he could most 
readily see the audience. Then, a shade paler than be- 
fore, he turned abruptly front again and pressed his 
lips together. 

Guarda gave herself the trouble and pleasure of sev- 
eral recalls before she condescended to sing the care- 


142 


The Song and the Singer. 


fully prepared encore piece ; and after that there was 
another season of persistent applauding. Eventually, 
having come forth to bow at least as many times as 
ever a prima donna had done in any previous Festival, 
Guarda gave a pretty gesture that said plainly, “Well, 
if you must have it,” and said something to the con- 
ductor. He opened the score of Ordway’s aria, and the 
audience, recognizing the first phrase of the introduc- 
tion, burst into another storm of hand-clapping. 

“There !” exclaimed Billy, intensely excited ; “did you 
notice that?” 

But the noise subsided suddenly, and you might have 
heard his “that” all over the hall, for the introduction 
had been played and Guarda was singing again. 

Billy had his chance at the end of the aria. 

“You see, Bert,” he said, “it was the music. They 
wanted that piece again. That was your success, old 
man. Don’t make any mistake about that in your 
modest noddle. Do you see?” 

“It is very gratifying,” Ordway responded. “There 
are a couple of persons up in the gallery whom we 
know.” 

“So? Who?” 

“Jane Twitched and Barbara Kendall. I think we’d 
better go up and speak to them.” 

“Sure ! I haven’t seen Barbara since I left East Wil- 
ton, or Jane, either. Jane is more fun than a circus. 
I suppose they’ve drifted in for this one concert. I cer- 
tainly haven’t seen them before during the week. The 


The Song and the Singer. 


143 


miscellaneous concert, you know, is always counted on 
to draw in the last musical straggler.” 

Thus he talked while they made their way up the 
aisle. A considerable proportion of the audience was 
also on the way out to chat in the lobby during inter- 
mission. Progress was necessarily slow, and Ordway 
had plenty of time for reflection and reminiscence. 
They had been with him since the instant when he 
caught sight of Barbara’s face just above the balcony 
rail. He had hardly been conscious of Guarda’s encore 
piece, or the repetition of his own aria. 

Had Barbara recognized the piece? He wondered 
bitterly whether she understood it now. 

It was at first the main impulse of the moment to 
discover if Barbara suspected or knew the authorship 
of the music, and, if so, to beg her for friendship’s sake 
to hold her peace about it. What if already she had 
mentioned it to Jane? It might go then to the ends of 
the 'earth, for there was great momentum in any story 
that had the advantage of a start from Jane. That 
matter required his attention and would have it, though 
in emotion it was subordinated speedily to a keen sense 
of humiliation. He had loved Barbara. Till yesterday 
he had loved her. What manner of man was he that 
could so swiftly put aside the old love for this new, 
hopeless, impossible passion? 

Upon his sensitive memory charged the scenes of old ; 
the homely comfort of the Kendall sitting-room with 
its ancient pianoforte, where he tried and she judged 


144 


The Song and the Singer. 


his anthems ; the serene peace of the orchard, the joys 
of wandering over the meadows gathering wild flowers ; 
above all, the sublimated purity of the atmosphere of 
which Barbara had seemed to be a part. Had seemed? 
Was now! Strange — or was it strange? — that in the 
first wild throbs of the new love he could remember 
and feel the charm of the old ! 

Ordway could not tell ; he knew only that he was 
sadly troubled, and his perplexity was still tangled about 
him when he came face to face with Barbara. She and 
Jane had come down from the balcony to the lobby. 

“Bert !” she said, gladly. “I thought you were com- 
ing out. We came down to meet you.” 

“And we were just going to find you.” 

He spoke gravely, and was not actor enough to smile 
even at unessential Jane when he greeted her. Billy 
was at hand, and for a moment the talk was general. 
Then Ordway and Barbara had a moment to themselves, 
as much as might be in the crowd that jammed around 
them. 

“Are you enjoying it?” he asked. 

“Oh ! so much !” was the low reply. 

There was surcharged in the tone the deep gratifica- 
tion of a starved soul. Ordway noticed it with a pang. 
It reminded him of his own years in the narrow, stifling 
atmosphere of the country village when he had had little 
more than his imagination to cheer him with visions of 
the larger world. A man of creative gifts usually comes 
to advanced years before he realizes fully that that which 


The Song and the Singer. 


145 


gives him so much of toil and disappointment is his 
chief compensation for existence, setting him as it does 
above the level of the humdrum world and making him 
an aristocrat. A dim perception of the infinite advan- 
tage he had as compared with her came to him as he 
faced her in the lobby, but he could not dwell upon it. 
There was business for the moment. 

“And Guarda,” said he, steadily — “how do you like 
her ?” 

“Isn’t she wonderful?” she responded, with bated 
breath. “I never heard anything like it.” 

“Her, or what she sang?” 

“Both. I was so glad that she repeated the first 
piece !” 

“You liked it, then, as music?” 

“I suppose so,” she answered, with some hesitation. 
“I don’t know that I am able to distinguish between 
the music and just the singing. It takes study to do 
that, doesn’t it?” 

“There is no doubt that study helps.” 

“I know I should like to hear the piece again,” she 
said, with a wistfulness that went as balm to the com- 
poser’s heart ; and then she added, “But I suppose that 
such a great singer could make anything sound well, 
couldn’t she ?” and that question whisked away the balm. 

“I don’t know about that,” he retorted, rather 
roughly. “You don’t imagine, do you, that Guarda’s 
singing could dignify a coon song, or make you think 
that ‘Sweet Marie’ was good music?” 


146 The Song and the Singer. 

“Oh, no !” she responded, hastily, and she seemed to 
feel that somehow she had offended him ; “but a great 
singer would not sing anything that was unworthy of 
her. You see, Bert,” and she smiled timidly, “we poor 
simpletons who love music without knowing how or 
why must depend upon the singer. We must take it for 
granted that what she gives us is good until we arrive 
by study or experience at the state where we can dis- 
criminate for ourselves. Isn’t that so?” 

“I guess it is,” said he. 

“I hope it is,” she went on, lightly, “for it saves us 
a lot of annoyance in making up our minds whether 
we like what we hear or not.” 

He had nothing to say to this. The subject had been 
probed sufficiently for his immediate purpose. Barbara 
had not the faintest idea that she ever had heard the 
aria before. The fantastic secret, therefore, was safe, 
but Ordway was not content, or relieved. On the con- 
trary, he was young enough to nourish some bitterness 
because no lasting impression had been made upon the 
mind of this sincere girl by a musical sketch that she 
had heard in a fragmentary way some years before. 

“Have you heard of Jane’s good fortune?” she asked, 
after a short pause. 

“No,” he said, glad that the subject was changing. 
“Has a Prince Charming induced her to break her cele- 
brated resolution?” 

“Oh, dear, no! It is more prosaic and doubtless 
better than that. Jane has come into some money.” 


The Song and the Singer. 147 

“Good gracious !” 

“Isn’t it strange? And the way of it is stranger still. 
You know her father went to California during the 
gold excitement of 1849?” 

“Yes ; and came back poorer than when he went out.” 

“Well, it seems that he had a friend out there who 
stuck to the mines. Jane remembers hearing her father 
sneak of him when she was a little girl.” 

“Was Jane ever a little girl?” 

“Bert ! Anyway, this old friend died some months 
ago. He had no children, no relations of any kind so 
far as can be found out, and he left his property to 
Jane in token of his esteem for her father.” 

“That was good of him. Has she actually come into 
the money without a contest?” 

“Yes; she has it in bank — all her own. How much 
do you think, Bert?” 

“Don’t ask me to guess. I should hate to over- 
state it.” 

“You couldn’t. It’s all of twenty thousand dollars.” 

“Well! That is a fortune for East Wilton!” 

He was about to ask some questions about the matter 
when Jane edged up to them. 

“Seems to me my ears are burning,” she said. “Has 
Barbara told you?” 

“Yes,” replied Ordway, “and I congratulate you 
heartily.” 

“You’d better, for I’m enjoying wealth! There are 
plenty who have it and don’t. I’m going to have a good 


148 


The Song and the Singer. 


time the rest of my life. I’ve bought two new hats 
and this dress ; see !” and she tried in the crush to stand 
off for Ordway’s observation. “But you’re only a man, 
and a blind one at that,” she went on, “and wouldn’t 
know a dress from a mealbag. I just simply want you 
to understand that I’m going it ! This concert is my 
first spree. I’m coming to New York bye-and-bye, and 
I shall expect you boys to show me the town. Will 
you?” 

“Will we!” exclaimed Billy, who was listening with 
dancing eyes. “Just try us ! I’ll make you pay your 
expenses.” 

“Of course!” said Jane, pertly. “I wouldn’t ask a 
man to pay now for my soda water and car fares.” 

“Oh ! I mean that I’d write up your experiences at 
so much per column. It would make bully copy ! 
Think of the possible headlines. Jane Twitchell’s Hot 
Time ; or ” 

“Billy! You put me in the paper and I’ll take your 
head off!” 

“Pshaw! Jane, you know well enough that nothing 
would delight you better than to see a line like this: 
‘Arrived, Fifth Avenue Hotel, Miss Jane Twitchell and 
suite.’ Eh?” 

Jane’s retort was not uttered, for they heard the pierc- 
ing notes of a cornet from the distant platform. 

“Land !” she exclaimed ; “there’s the signal for begin- 
ning again. Come, Barbara !” and, with little formality 


The Song and the Singer. 149 

in the way of farewells, they hurried up to their seats 
in the balcony. 

Billy started for the telegraph office to file his report 
while yet the singers who had appeared in the final 
number were responding to recalls. Ordway stemmed 
the outgoing tide of humanity and went to the room 
behind the platform, where the prima and the lesser 
lights were receiving the congratulations of the com- 
mitteemen and such persons as were privileged by 
previous introduction to address them directly. Stand- 
ing obscurely at some distance behind Guarda, and 
looking stolidly unmoved, was the tall form of Giuseppe 
Napoli. It was easy to imagine that the event bored 
him insufferably. 

Ordway lingered at the door until Guarda saw him. 
Immediately she broke through the circle of her admir- 
ers and went to him, holding out her hand. 

“Wasn’t it glorious?” she exclaimed. “My voice was 
never better, and I never had an audience more com- 
pletely under control. Didn’t you think so?” 

“Yes,” he answered, gravely. “I came to congratu- 
late you, and thank you, and to say good-bye.” 

“You are not leaving the Festival before the end?” 
she asked, in unmistakable astonishment. 

“I must. I have a professional engagement in New 
York to-morrow.” 

A rehearsal, that could have been postponed, was to 
be held by Ordway’s choir on the following evening. 

“Ah, then,” she said, “I shall see you there soon.” 


150 The Song and the Singer. 

“About the aria,” he added, with a trace of embarrass- 
ment, “I said the other evening that you could do with 
it as you wished. I meant it, and I shall leave the 
music with you.” 

“Thank you,” she responded, promptly, and yet she 
looked as if she did not understand fully ; “we will talk 
about that in New York. If you must go, good-by!” 

He was troubled by every detail of this meeting, 
which he would have avoided if there had been any 
way in courtesy to do so. The pressure of her hand 
in greeting and again in farewell ; the searching, eager 
look in her eyes ; her beauty, brilliant under the ex- 
citement of triumph, her insistence that she would see 
him again, and, perhaps above all, though Ordway at 
the moment might not have acknowledged it, her utter 
failure to say in so many words that his music had 
been contributory to her success. 

Shortly after midnight, Ordway was trying to sleep 
in a train bound for New York. 


X. 


Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all. 

— Shakespeare. 

It was after breakfast on the morning following the 
departure of Ordway. Billy was in his room attempting 
to meditate over a cigar. In sorry fact, that audacious 
individual was in a panic of trepidation. Under some 
shirts in the bottom drawer of his bureau was a certain 
square parcel. 

Billy was going to start for New York after the final 
concert in the evening. He could not leave the parcel 
where it was, and he had no mind to take it with him. 
There was really but one course open to him. Singular 
that he should have hesitated, and debated it, and 
shrunk from it. 

A second cigar followed the first to his lips, and when 
it was lighted, he drew his chair close to the bureau and 
opened the bottom drawer. He pulled the shirts from 
off the parcel, rested his elbows on his knees, and stared 
at it. He blew a column of white smoke down at it, 
and watched the wreaths rebound and rise, blue, curling 
and diaphanous. Not by so thin a cloud as tobacco 
smoke was that evidence of his guilt to be concealed. 

151 


152 The Song and the Singer. 

“Confound it!” said Billy, all to himself; “I’m not 
sorry I did it, not a little bit, and I won’t say so ; but I 
wish some other fellow had this part of it to do.” 

He looked at his watch ; after ten o’clock. Guarda 
surely had breakfasted by this time. That she might 
still be at table had been the transparent excuse thus far 
for his delay in restoring her property to her. Of course 
he might send it to her with a note of explanation and 
apology ; and he might delay sending it till after the 
evening concert ; or he might ship it by express, anony- 
mously, to her hotel in New York. All these and some 
other evasive devices had occurred to him only to be dis- 
missed with frank contempt that he should be weak 
enough even to think of them. 

“I’ll face the music, of course,” said he, “and I might 
as well do it now and be done with it.” 

Resolutely he picked up the parcel and started from his 
room, laying his unfinished cigar upon the wash stand. 
Once in the corridor, he decided to send up his card, 
and in his heart, suddenly coward, he hoped that she 
would be too busy to see him. His way to the office 
took him past Guarda’s suite. Elise, whom he recog- 
nized as the prima’s maid, was knocking at the door ad- 
joining Guarda’s rooms. 

It was opened as Billy went by, and he heard Elise 
say, in French : 

“Madame will go to rehearsal.” 

Billy knew enough French to understand this, and he 
understood also the single word, “Bien,” in response, 


The Song and the Singer. 153 

from the person within. That person was the haughty 
Giuseppe Napoli. 

The reporter turned his head to take quick measure- 
ment of the distance from Napoli’s door to that of the 
prima. Then he said “Huh !” very softly and returned to 
his room, putting the parcel back in the bottom drawer. 
His cigar had not gone out, and he finished it on the 
way to rehearsal. 

Guarda and other singers were on the platform, pre- 
paring for the oratorio of the evening. Billy sauntered 
down the side of the hall and presently caught her eye. 
She bowed and smiled, and made a gesture to show that 
she wished to speak to him. Almost at the same mo- 
ment there came a cue for her and she had to sing. Billy 
sat down in the front row and waited. When there came 
a pause in her duties she went down the platform steps 
and joined him. 

“Tell me,” she said at once, “have you said something- 
nice about me in the paper this morning? Tm just 
dying for the New York papers to come !” 

“I said you did very well considering the music you 
had to sing,” replied Billy. 

“Oh!” and she affected a tone of reproach, “I am 
quite sure that what you have really said was that the 
music w -s worthy of a greater singer. I don’t believe 
your enthusiasm for your friend would permit you to 
say anything very good of a singer.” 

‘ But I couldn’t speak of Ordway’s music as his. You 
wouldn’t let me.” 


154 The Song and the Singer. 

“I know. It was better that way. Tell me about 
him.” 

“Don’t you think now,” he asked, ignoring her de- 
mand, “that it would have been just as well, even better, 
to make an announcement of the facts about the aria ?” 

“No.” she answered, decidedly. “I made a success 
with it, yes ; but how could I be sure of doing so in ad- 
vance ? It was better this way, notwithstanding all your 
arguments and those of Mr. Biddle. Tell me about Mr. 
Ordway.” 

“Yes’m,” said Billy, meekly, and she laughed. 

“He went away last night very abruptly,” she contin- 
ued, “and though he said good-bye and left the music 
with me, he did not give me his address. Do you know 
it?” 

“Rather ! Bert and I live together.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes. We have an elegant flat of four rooms. His 
pianoforte takes up all of one of them, there are two 
bedrooms, and when we want to talk to each other we 
go into the kitchen or out on the fire escape.” 

“How nice ! What fun you two fellows — pardon ! I 
mean, gentlemen — must have !” 

“I’d rather you’d say fellows.” 

“I will if you will give me your combined address. I 
shall want to see you both in the city.” 

Billy scribbled the address upon a card and gave it to 
her. Their talk was then inconsequential until Guarda 
exclaimed, sotto voce, “Ah — my cue !” She began to 


The Song and the Singer. 155 

sing at once, and marched up the steps to the platform, 
singing away for dear life, and causing a smile to adorn 
the worn features of the conductor. 

It was time for dinner at the end of the rehearsal; 
then followed immediately the afternoon concert; and 
;some thirty minutes after that was a thing of the past 
Billy knocked at Guarda’s parlor. He had the square 
parcel under his arm. 

At that moment Signor Napoli was smoking cigar- 
ettes in the billiard hall. Billy had seen him there. 

Elise opened the door and Guarda herself, hearing 
his voice, bade him enter. Billy went in with the parcel 
held behind him, and he kept it there until Elise had left 
the room. Meantime Guarda was smiling at him, but 
with inquiry in her eyes, for his manner was helplessly 
portentous. 

“Did you ever see this before ?” he asked, holding the 
parcel toward her. 

She knew it at a glance. 

“My aria!” she cried. “Where did you find it?” 

What an opportunity that innocent question opened 
for ready fiction ! 

“I didn’t find it,” said Billy. 

“Didn’t find it !” she echoed. 

“No. I stole it!” 

Guarda had taken the parcel from his hand. For a 
moment she looked at him ; then at the parcel ; then at 
him again. 


i^6 The Song and the Singer. 

“You stole it?” said she. “Is this one of your jokes? 
Am I too dense to see the point ?” 

“I hope not,” he answered, “but the joke requires a 
map. I was in the hall when you came in for your first 
rehearsal. I saw your music placed on the platform. 
Biddle had told me what you were to rehearse that 
morning. I thought I saw a way to do a good thing for 
Bert without doing any real harm to anybody. So I 
walked carelessly by the platform. The men were busy 
with their tuning up ; nobody paid any attention to me ; 
I slipped the parcel under my coat and sat there with it 
while you and everybody were going frantic over its dis- 
appearance. It has been in my room ever since. Ord- 
way doesn’t know the first thing about this. If he should 
ever hear of it he would never speak to me again. He’s 
a man of plumb-line honor. I’m just a ” 

Billy’s characterization of himself was lost in Guarda’s 
peal of uncontrollable laughter. During the first part 
of his speech she had listened with undisguised amaze- 
ment, incredulity almost. 

Then, as the recital proceeded and all the circum- 
stances recurred to her in flashes, she was filled, first 
with positive admiration for the reporter’s boldness and 
cunning combined, and then his evident shamefacedness 
now overpowered her, and for once “sense of humor” 
had full sway. 

As her laughter on previous occasions had been in- 
fectious, so now it set Billy to grinning sheepishly. 

“I didn’t come here to say that I was sorry,” he be- 


The Song and the Singer. 


157 


gan ; “I only don't want you to misunderstand Ordway. 
He would have cut off his hands rather than con- 
sent ” 

“Could he cut them both off?” she screamed, and 
sank to a chair in a paroxysm of renewed laughter. 

“Well,” said Billy, “he could cut one off and hold the 
other against a buzz-saw. I don’t see anything so very 
hard in that, or funny, either.” 

“No, I should say there wouldn’t be anything funny in 
holding one’s hand against a buzz-saw ! Oh ! Billy ! — 
Billy Jameson! You are a sad case! The idea that I 
could suspect Mr. Ordway of such — such duplicity ! 
What is the word for it ?” 

“Machiavellian ?” 

“I guess so, thought it doesn’t sound crooked enough 
to do justice to the affair. No, Billy ; you may rest easy 
so far as your friend is concerned. His honesty is as 
transparent as your roguery is appalling. Oh, dear !” 

She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes and then to 
her lips to check the tide of her mirth. He looked down 
at her for a moment and then said, gravely : 

“You called me Billy.” 

“Did I?” she responded, choking afresh, for eveiy 
word he uttered seemed to provoke her risibility. 

“Guarda, I allow only those who love me to call me 
Billy.” 

“Well, that’s easy. I love you.” 

“It must be to distraction, Guarda.” 


158 The Song and the Singer. 

“To distraction it is, Billy. Anything so that I can 
call you what I please.” 

She bent over the parcel of music, opening it, and 
chuckling repeatedly as she saw the familiar pages. 
Thus she did not observe the momentary shadow that 
crossed his face, or see the way he shut his jaws to- 
gether. 

“This might be regarded as a dangerous conversa- 
tion,” said he, with successfully assumed lightness. “I 
wonder what the signor would say of it?” 

Guarda frowned, but her expression cleared instantly, 
and she laughed again, this time as if something remi- 
niscent had stirred her mirth. 

“The signor doesn’t count,” she said. 

Without pause she arose and held out her hand, add- 
ing: “If you feared to confess this charming fraud 
please understand that you are freely forgiven.” 

“Then, you don’t mind?” 

“Mind! I wouldn’t have missed it all for anything. 
We shall be great friends — you and I and Mr. Ordway. 
Think what a hold I shall always have on you ! If you 
are ever naughty I shall only have to threaten to 
tell Mr. Ordway, and you’ll become as nice as a kitten.” 

“That’s right enough, Guarda. I’d bold my own 
hands against a buzz-saw rather than let him know 
about it.” 

“He shall never know from me. Tell me, did all this 
intricate scheme, with its possibilities of detection and 
failure, occur to you while you were in the hall ?” 


The Song and the Singer. 


159 


And she made him go over the circumstances in the 
greatest detail, compelling him to invent rather copious- 
ly to cover the episodes with Ordway that first night ; 
but he made it perfectly clear that the composer had not 
so much as suspected the true state of the case. Guarda 
was unaffectedly interested, and when they parted it 
was with urgency on her part that he should call upon 
her in the city, and promise on his part to do so. 

As he went down to dinner he thought wrathfully of 
Napoli. 

“How she enjoys a laugh !” he thought. “What could 
have possessed her to tackle to him ? Can she ever have 
a laugh with that withered husk?” 

Two questions, the answers to which, as it happened, 
Billy never learned. 


ANDANTE CON MOTO. 

I. 


Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s ox, . . . 

nor anything that is thy neighbor’s. 

— Word of God. 

Following the Boxford festival, Guarda was engaged 
upon a somewhat extended concert tour. Her appear- 
ances in one place and another were recorded in the 
musical journals, to some of which Ordway was a sub- 
scriber. It was not his habit to pay attention to the 
movements of public singers, but he kept track of hers. 
One day he saw his own name in a paper. Guarda had 
sung his aria somewhere, and the reporter had included 
a condensation of the programme in his account of the 
concert. A part of it read as follows : 


Suite, Arlesienne Bizet 

Scena and Aria Ordway 

Fifth Symphony Beethoven. 


Billy, to whom Ordway showed the paper, was hugely 
delighted. 

“You’re arriving, all right,” said he. 

“Pooh !” responded Ordway, affecting a contempt for 

that that made a warm glow in his heart, “what does it 

amount to? Just the performance of a song in some 

out-of-the-way place where I never was heard of.” 

160 


The Song and the Singer. 161 

“Idiot!” was Billy’s judicially calm remark. 

“I can’t see that it should justify me in building air 
castles or in holding my head any higher.” 

“You don’t need any stimulus for the building of air 
castles, my son,” said Billy, severely ; “but as for hold- 
ing your head higher, do you think it is nothing to be 
sandwiched in between such men as Bizet and Bee- 
thoven? They’re rather promising composers, aren’t 
they?” 

“I admit that I’m in pretty good company.” 

“And you’ve been heard of in that out-of-the-way 
•place now, haven’t you, to say nothing of the people 
who will read this report ” 

“And forget it.” 

“Nonsense ! I know well enough you’re bursting 
with conceited joy. That’s all right. It’s sensible not to 
show it ; but let me call your attention to a very subtle 
testimony to your growing fame. Observe,” and Billy 
read the names, impressively, “Bizet, Ordway, Bee- 
thoven. Is there anything less imposing in Ordway 
than in Bizet ? But the point is that you’re not identi- 
fied by your first name, or your residence, or even your 
nationality — just Ordway. That means as much to 
those western concert-goers as would Svendsen in the 
same place on the programme, or Godard, or Bortm- 
anski, or any other blessed foreigner. I tell you, you’re 
coming up.” 

Ordway smiled contentedly, and in due course sent 
the paper, with the paragraph marked, to his mother. 


The Song - and the Singer. 


162 

He had a great deal to think of in those days — per- 
haps it would be better to say that he did a great deal of 
thinking. 

Much that was merely rustic in his manner of thought 
as well as action had been rubbed away by his three 
years’ contact with the city. Between the high walls of 
the town there is a mental atmosphere such as the coun- 
try cannot maintain. Ordway had breathed it to the full 
with lungs that hungered for it. His outlook had broad- 
ened as it cannot when the material eye leaps across 
pleasant vales that sparkle with stream and lake jewels 
to the blue tops of distant mountains. One may love 
Nature; he may find his serenest, profoundest joy in 
lying on his back where moss supplements the thin turf 
of a lofty ledge, watching the clouds that drift aimless- 
ly and lose themselves with fascinating mystery in the 
blue, or turning to observe the birds twittering away 
at the comedies and tragedies of their lives, or straining 
his ear to catch the illusive harmony of the sinking 
brook below and the sighing pines above ; he may pluck 
wildflowers, note the cheerful spots of color where cat- 
tle crop the grass, dream poems about the vine-bowered 
cottage where lives the farmer, or the artisan ; and yet 
he will fly from all these to the city as gladly as a 
vociferous robin takes to the tops of budding trees. 

The completest life is that in which the mind toils 
in the city and takes to the fields for rest. 

Ordway, young, and with a buoyancy unnoted by 
the casual acquaintance because of his dominating 


The Song and the Singer. 163 

seriousness, had not arrived at the stage where the 
whirl and stress of urban activity had exhausted him. 
He was still keen for the struggle. There had been no 
little compensation for the privations incident to the 
struggle in the associations to which he came, partly 
through Billy and the newspaper boys, and partly 
through his slowly growing professional relationships. 
He enjoyed the sparkle of reporters’ keen comments 
on men and things ; he even found some measure of 
satisfaction in the professional musicians who talked 
shop rather than art over their beer after a concert, for 
they spoke as men having ideas, even if it were fairly 
patent that their utterances were but the reflections of 
the idea? of others. 

So Ordway was broader than before. He was con- 
scious of it, and undoubtedly believed with perfect 
sincerity that he was a great deal broader and that he 
knew a great deal more than was actually the fact. 
But there was that in him, of which also he was vaguely 
conscious, that three years in the liberalizing atmos- 
phere of the city could not brush away, rub cut, or 
revolutionize. It was not to be defined in a word, that 
conservatism, stability, morality — call it what you will 
— that becomes a man sprung from generations of pure, 
uneventful lives. It was to this inheritance that the 
curious in such matters may trace the extraordinary 
disturbance that had been his secret trouble, unknown 
to and unsuspected by Billy, since the Boxford Festival. 


164 


The Song and the Singer. 


Many a long evening when Billy was busy with news- 
paper duties, Ordway walked the streets and wrestled 
with himself. That he should dismiss Giulia Guarda, 
utterly and forever, from his thoughts appeared to him 
as plain duty. There was no argument about it, for 
it admitted of none. What troubled, surprised and 
appalled him was the fact that he could not do it. She 
stood by him when he worked, whether with his pupils 
or at his music paper, particularly at the latter occupa- 
tion. He was too clever an analyst not to trace directly 
to her influence the abundant melodies that sang in 
his inner consciousness and took form under his pen. 
Never had he composed with such facility, such felicity; 
at times it was almost with abandon. It was all Guarda, 
and he knew it ; but Guarda was a married woman, and 
it seemed to him not less than horrible that he should 
be unable to think of her other than as a conventional 
friend. 

A right-thinking man who loves fortunately looks 
upon himself as the most blessed of God’s creatures. 
With adorable conceit he differentiates himself from the 
mass of his fellow beings and regards himself as singled 
out for incredible happiness. He views this extraor- 
dinary relation of himself to the rest of the world with 
glad surprise, finding it very hard to believe that he is 
worthy of so much bliss. 

With Ordway the surprise took on a very different 
cast. 

“Is it possible that I,” he asked himself, with strenu- 


The Sonp- and the Singer. 165 

ous emphasis on the Ego, “that I, of all men, can 
tolerate thoughts of this kind? — that it has come to 
me to face a situation that is pregnant with scandal? — 
that in my secret thoughts I dally with elements that 
in all ages have been productive of tragedy?” 

If it occurred to him that his hopeless passion cer- 
tainly linked him with all mankind and identified him 
with the mass, the hod-carrier as well as with the prince, 
the reflection gave him no comfort. Rather would such 
a view have added to his mortification. Rather did he 
condemn himself unsparingly for his inability to repress 
yearnings that lie coldly regarded as profanation to her. 
For, of course, he idealized Guarda. 

In his long walks and the silent hours when work 
stood still, he tried to accustom himself to thinking 
of her as Madame Napoli. It might not be amiss to 
love Julia Ward, or Giulia Guarda — the form of the 
name mattered nothing; but Madame, Mrs. Napoli, that 
was unthinkable. And that being the case, he thought 
of it ; but his device, quaint though it may seem to any 
of larger sophistication, and his persistent endeavors 
to re-establish a correct point of view, were of such 
avail at last that he believed he had conquered, or was 
conquering, what he chose to regard as his weakness. 

Then one day he read in his musical journal that 
Guarda was to sing at a concert in Philadelphia. It 
was that very evening. He wondered if his aria would 
be on the programme? In any event, it might be a 
good thing as a disciplinary measure to go to the 


1 66 The Song and the Singer. 

concert. Thus he could test the mastery he had ac- 
quired over his emotions, and, facing the impossible 
situation in her very presence, he should come away 
strengthened. Billy need know nothing about his jour- 
ney, for trains between New York and Philadelphia ran 
at such frequent intervals that he could probably be 
back and asleep before Billy was done with his night’s 
work at the newspaper office. 

So, sincerely enough, but under some measure of 
self-deceit, nevertheless, Ordway took train for Phila- 
delphia and arrived in time to hear the opening number 
of the concert. To his considerable satisfaction, his 
aria was indeed on the programme, and again he had 
the pleasure of seeing his name paraded in the company 
of the great. 

He had a seat in the back row of the balcony, choos- 
ing the location, in so far as he had any choice, partly 
from his habitual motive of economy and partly from 
fear that Guarda might see and recognize him if he sat 
nearer the platform. His satisfaction deepened as he 
observed that he was taking a sane interest in the music 
of the first two numbers. One was an overture, the 
other a suite. He enjoyed them both, and until the 
conductor laid down his baton at the end of the suite 
he was convinced that the Philadelphia experiment was 
a proper success. 

Mechanically he referred to his programme, for he 
knew that it was the turn of Guarda and his aria next. 
Of a sudden his memory harked back to a scene of 


The Song and the Singer. 


167 


his childhood. He was in school. It was “Exhibition 
Day,” and ranged in borrowed chairs around the sides 
of the room were all his world — his father and mother, 
the minister, the school committee, benevolent old Dr. 
Hubbard, and grouty old Sam Sanders, the grocer 
(“Crab Sanders,” the boys used to call him) ; pensive 
Miss Whitcomb, who made dresses, trimmed hats, and 
taught a class in the Sunday school ; Deacon Giddings, 
whose “Gosh darn it !” was famous all over East Wilton 
because the only time he ever had been known to use 
such impious words was the occasion when his un- 
manageable horse backed his carryall straight into the 
door of the church after service ; and the mothers and 
aunts of all the boys and girls. Everybody was dressed 
in his and her best, particularly the “scholars,” and 
down in the front row was himself, a lump in his throat 
and an infinite pressure of apprehension against his 
breast because in a half-minute more he would be called 
on to speak his piece : 

“Stand ! the ground’s your own, my braves ! 

Will ye give it up to slaves?” 

Those were the first lines to be piped by his tiny 
treble in public, and he wondered, with mighty quakings 
for so small a bosom, whether he would forget them at 
the critical moment, and whether he could speak loud 
enough for Dr. Hubbard, who was slightly deaf, to 
hear? 

All this came back to him now, and with him, multi- 
plied to accord with his stature, were the lump in the 


1 68 


The Song and the Singer. 


throat, the pressure of apprehension against his breast, 
and the heart quaking when the door at the back of 
the platform opened to admit Guarda to view. 

Queenly and radiant, she swept down the aisle of 
violinists to the front and made her gracious obeisance. 
Ordway did not close his eyes. The corners of his 
mouth were drawn down in the effort to appear and 
be absolutely unmoved. He looked, and looked, and 
the tempest raged within him. 

Once while she was singing he wished that she had 
chosen any other aria than his own, for again he could 
not disabuse his fancy of the impression that this, his 
song, manifest in her voice, was a direct message from 
her soul to his. He wanted to flee, and could not ; he 
wished that he had not come, and he knew that nothing 
within his reasonable hopes could have persuaded him 
to part with the pain of this experience. 

Again he seemed to be the only person in the audi- 
ence who did not applaud. Guarda’s success was un- 
equivocal and immense. There was the customary 
succession of recalls and the inevitable encore, and 
through it all Ordway sat with clenched jaws and 
wrinkled brow, his programme crushed in a shapeless 
wad. When the emotional tumult of the others had 
passed, those others who had been stirred to some de- 
gree, perhaps, by his music — those others to whom the 
singer was but a musical machine, a thing of beauty, 
impersonal — he sat motionless and tried to follow the 
symphony. Before it was half done he knew that the 


The Song and the Singer. 169 

main immediate desire of his life was that it would 
come to end. 

The echo of the last chord was still vibrating in the 
air when he got up and pushed hurriedly past others 
in the back row to the aisle. He had but dim per- 
ception of the plan that had formed in his mind. The 
concert was done, and he wanted to get away from it. 
Men and women impeded him, for the percentage that 
does not wait for the last chord was ahead of him. The 
stairs led not directly to the street, but to the general 
entrance, and there the crush was great. He elbowed 
his way into the main current, and then the sound of 
a familiar voice speaking his name caused his heart to 
stand still. He turned half around, and there was Billy. 

“You here, Bert?” said Billy, at no pains to disguise 
his astonishment. 

“Yes,” replied Ordway, awkwardly; “they did my 
aria, you know.” 

“Uh-huh,” Billy responded, indifferently. “Pretty 
fair sort of piece, isn’t it?” 

“It was in good company again,” said Ordway. 

They went out together, and as the cool air of night 
touched their faces, Ordway knew that but for Billy’s 
presence he would have gone around to the stage en- 
trance to be near when Guarda went to her carriage. 


II. 


There is the potentiality of the libertine in every 
Puritan. — The Hermit. 

“Why didn’t you say you were coming on?” asked 
Billy, as they set out for the railroad station. 

Ordway could answer honestly that he had not known 
of the concert until that very morning, since which time 
he and the reporter had not met. 

“And yourself,” he added; “why didn’t you speak 
of it?” 

“Oh!” said Billy, “a newspaper man never knows 
where he is going to dine, you know. I had to run over 
to Philadelphia, and so I dropped in at the concert. 
Sings well, doesn’t she?” 

“Superbly.” 

Billy took a side glance at his companion and pursed 
his lips. He was remarkably thoughtful and silent, for 
him. 

Ordway took it upon himself to do talking enough 
for both, reversing, for the occasion, the usual con- 
versational relations between them. 

“You’re altogether right, Billy,” he said, with vehe- 
mence that might pass for earnestness; “it’s a good 
thing to be on such programmes. It makes for prestige 

170 


The Song and the Singer. 171 

and success elsewhere. I must bring the attention of 
singers to others of my songs. I’ve any number of 
things that are worthy of being on recital programmes ; 
don’t you think so?” 

“Of course,” said Billy. “Are you getting any 
royalty for the use of the aria?” 

“No ; I don’t want anything from that.” 

“Why not?” 

“Well, because I don’t. That’s an exception, you 
see. To put it grossly, the advertising I get from its 
occasional use by Madanle Guarda is as much com- 
pensation as I ought to expect.” 

“But I haven’t a doubt she’d pay a royalty.” 

“Neither have I. She has intimated as much, very 
plainly.” 

“Then why don’t you ask for it?” 

“Because I don’t want it. Isn’t that reason enough? 
There was no shadow of commercial impulse behind 
the composition of that piece. It was done for art’s 
sake, and I prefer to keep it in that atmosphere. You 
can allow a musician to cherish a little sentiment, can’t 
you ?” 

“Huh!” said Billy. 

The reporter had doubts. He half believed and 
wholly feared that his friend was dodging his questions. 
That Ordway was notoriously not clever at evasion 
was presumptive evidence that Billy’s first impression 
on seeing him in Philadelphia was incorrect ; and, as 
the composer did not say plainly that he would not 


172 The Song and the Singer. 

accept a royalty from a woman with whom he was madly 
in love, Billy had to dispose of his doubts as best he 
could. 

Ordway veered away from the subject of Guarda and 
his aria, and all the way to the station he prattled 
with nervous animation about his songs and the singers 
to whom he would show them with a view to creating 
a mercantile value for his writings. By the time they 
were aboard a train, his unusual effort at conversation 
had exhausted both his tongue and his invention, and 
they journeyed in silence, for Billy had nothing to say. 

It was a week or ten days after this that Billy, having 
an early morning assignment, had to get up in time to 
breakfast with Ordway. There were some letters for 
the composer, and he took them unopened to the res- 
taurant. He read them while the meal was being pre- 
pared, Billy devoting himself to the morning paper. 
One of the letters, dated at a fashionable hotel uptown, 
was as follows : 

“Dear Mr. Ordway: Are you never going to keep 
your promise to call on me? I shall be at home to- 
morrow at three, and shall feel truly offended if you 
do not present yourself. Do call, and bring that absurd 
friend of yours, Billy What’s-his-name, with you. If you 
do not come I shall expect to hear that you are in a 
hospital, or dead. Sincerely, 

“Giulia Guarda.” 


“Put down your paper a minute, Billy,” said Ordway, 
and he tossed the letter across the table. 


The Song and the Singer. 


173 


Billy read the note with unchanging expression, 
tossed it back, and said: “Now, you’ve got to go.” 

“I suppose so. Will you repeat your invitation of 
last week and accompany me ?” 

Guarda’s arrival in town had been announced in the 
daily papers. More than one had printed an interview 
with her. Ordway had said nothing, and Billy had 
called his attention to her presence by suggesting that 
they call on her together. At that time the composer 
had declined rather testily, saying that he was busy and 
had nothing to say to the lady. Billy had given vent 
to some characteristic remarks on the subject of idiocy, 
and the matter had been dropped. 

“I think,” said Billy, “that I can manage it. Three 
o’clock, does she say?” 

“Yes. I suppose we will make the acquaintance of 
Signor Napoli, this time.” 

“Ugh !” grunted the reporter. “It must be a tremen- 
dous business to be entertained by that wreck.” 

“I’ve no desire to know him,” said Ordway. “I 
thought of him when you spoke of calling last week.” 

“Did you?” Billy’s brows rose a bit, and Ordway 
glanced aside, calling the waiter to bring him something 
he had no use for. “Well,” Billy continued, “I don’t 
think that you’ll be troubled by him.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Nothing more than I say, and that’s only conjecture; 
but I think Guarda has him pretty thoroughly subdued, 


174 


The Song and the Singer. 


and that she doesn’t trot him out for the entertainment 
of her particular friends.” 

“I wasn’t aware that I was a particular friend of 
the lady.” 

“Well, you might be, and you ought to be. You’re 
not making the best of your opportunity, old man.” 

“Perhaps not. I’ll call on her. Of course it’s the 
courteous thing to do; but I’d like to have you along 
to keep me in countenance.” 

“What are you afraid of?” 

Ordway twisted his features into an absurd grimace, 
guiltily conscious that otherwise he could not prevent 
betrayal of emotion that might incite Billy to further 
inquiry. It was quite extraordinary what a way Billy 
had acquired lately of asking unwelcome questions. “I 
shrink from her flattery,” said Ordway; “you can take 
the edge off by making her laugh.” 

“If that’s what’s needed,” responded Billy, moodily, 
“it’s lucky her laugh lies so close to her lips. All right, 
Bert; I’ll meet you there, if it’s a possible thing, at 
three o’clock.” 

At the time appointed Ordway went into the hotel 
office. Billy was not in evidence, but Signor Napoli 
was. That severe and withered Tuscan was sitting in 
solemn solitude on a bench, smoking cigarettes, seeing 
nothing, apparently, but the visions of his own rumina- 
tions. The sight of this man gave Ordway a dull sense 
of discomfort. He walked up and down the long office 
several times, wishing that Billy would arrive. It came 


The Song and the Singer. 175 

to be ten minutes past the hour. Billy had not ap- 
peared, and Ordway had debated sufficiently whether 
he would run away, or face the situation manfully. 

In point of hard fact he had not thought seriously 
of evading the ordeal, and he was none too sorry that 
Billy was not present. To ask him to be along had 
been a confession of fear that Billy himself had per- 
ceived instantly. Ordway did fear, for himself, and he 
preferred, now that he thought of it, to endure by his 
own strength. 

The misgivings, and the dread, and, mingled with 
them, the eager anticipation, with which he saw a boy 
disappear with his card, vanished as he went upward 
in the elevator. He arrived at Guarda’s door in com- 
posure that astonished him. 

“Ah !” she said, quietly, “I had begun to believe that 
you had cut me.” 

She was smiling, cordial, and the touch of her hand 
was gratefully warm, as at Boxford; but for the mo- 
ment there was little of the vivacity that had character- 
ized her demeanor there. 

“No,” he responded; “I have been very busy.” 

“Composing?” 

“Partly.” 

“I wish you would let me see some of your work.” 

Before he thought, Ordway had responded that he 
would be only too glad to show her his new music. He 
regretted it instantly — that is, he perceived that he had 
held open the door to the further meetings that he 


176 


The Song and the Singer. 


believed to be inadvisable to say the least ; but the 
memory of her ready appreciation, her sympathy of the 
kind that does not need to be expressed in words, 
swerved his judgment, and he stood committed. 

“I am planning some recitals,” she said, ‘‘and I should 
be sorry if I could not include a group of your songs. 
Haven’t you fallen into the fashion and written a cycle ?” 

“No,” he replied, almost speechless at the opportunity 
she presented. No one knew better than he that not 
a composer in the country would have felt other than 
flattered at the suggestion. The risen men might have 
affected to take it complacently for granted that Guarda 
would sing their songs, but the rising men, and all the 
younger, unknown fry like himself, would have been 
elated to the degree of intoxication. It was like him 
to take the suggestion in all seriousness, and swiftly 
to analyze it as the result of her admiration for his aria. 
She would not sing that unless she believed in it, and, 
embarrassing as it might be to modesty, it was natural 
that she should turn to its composer for other works 
of merit. Thus it appeared to him that there was no 
shadow of personal interest in the matter — that the sug- 
gestion was made to him as the composer, not to Her- 
bert Ordway, the man and friend. How could it be 
otherwise when she had had such slight contact with 
him? 

Ordway, when he asked this question in the swift 
flashing of his thoughts, overlooked the fact that he 
had fallen in love with Guarda in that same brief period. 


The Song and the Singer. 


177 


He was elated, therefore, as any young composer 
would have been ; and under the circumstances, as he 
viewed them, he found it singularly easy to talk with 
her. The distressing problem of his undue regard for 
her retreated in his consciousness while he told her of 
his songs, and her interest was so keen, and her manner 
so unaffectedly calculated to put him at his ease, that 
presently he had drifted to the pianoforte and was run- 
ning over some of his compositions from memory, with 
laughing apology for his choir-master’s voice. 

“Never mind,” she said, in response to this; “I will 
eventually be your voice.” 

How quickly the foolish heart leaps to the appre- 
hension of unintended significance in the utterances of 
one who, consciously or unconsciously, has possessed 
it ! Ordway’s color rose, his fingers stumbled, and he 
hoped devoutly that Guarda did not notice. She did. 
As he preluded and began to sing, she drew back, and 
her eyes nearly closed while she kept her gaze fixed 
intently upon him. 

“Beautiful !” she murmured, softly, at the end. 
“Where did you find the words?” 

“I wrote them,” said Ordway, simply. 

“And you are a poet also !” she exclaimed, wonder 
and admiration in her tone. 

“Well,” and he laughed deprecatingly, “I don’t assert 
claim to that title. I have too much respect for it ; but 
I think things, you know, and it’s rather better to write 


178 The Song and the Singer. 

them out than keep them knocking about in one’s 
head.” 

Guarda was deeply interested. He saw and felt that, 
and under the temptation of so much and so dear ap- 
preciation, he played and sang one thing after another, 
all to words of his own, “Sturm und Drang” pieces and 
others, till, suddenly, he stood up, confused and 
alarmed. It was all so intensely personal. How could 
she help perceiving it? 

“I must have some of those songs,” she said, quite 
gravely. 

He hardly heard her. The Puritan that lurked in 
his nineteenth century blood commanded him to turn 
away his eyes from her. 


III. 


. . . . And in my choice 

To reign is worth ambition, though in hell; 
Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven. 

— Milton. 

“You are welcome to them all,” he said, but he did 
not look at her; he could not command his lips to 
smile, or his voice to rise above a whisper. 

There was a pause, and he did not know by visual 
evidence that she was looking at him again through 
almost closed eyes ; but he felt the searching, and he 
was in torment lest she should see too much. 

“I have occupied your time unconscionably,” he 
added, hastily, and turned to get his hat. 

Her manner changed, and for a brief space he seemed 
to be back in the hotel at Boxford. Darting ahead 
of him, she caught up his hat and held it behind her. 

“Take it if you dare !” she cried, her eyes aglow with 
vivacity and laughter. “My time is nothing save as 
I command it. I choose that you shall occupy more 
of it.” 

“My own, then,” said he, gruffly, for he was rebelling 
bitterly against the display of emotion into which he 
had been led. 


179 


180 The Song and the Singer. 

“Ah ! that may be quite another matter/’ and she 
was grave again; “but if it is business that calls you, 
I must still ask you to wait a moment, as I want to 
speak of a matter of business.” 

He steeled himself for what, with the best of inten- 
tions on her part, could be only an affront, for he 
anticipated that she would renew her offer to buy his 
aria, or pay him royalties for the use of it. 

“I have been singing your piece,” she went on, rap- 
idly, “every place where I could smuggle it into the 
programmes since you gave it to me in Boxford. It is 
very successful. People speak of it, and like enough 
some of them mean what they say. When a man offers 
to put money into it you can certainly count on his 
sincerity. That is what has happened.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Ordway, guardedly. 

“A publisher has asked for the privilege of bringing 
it out. It would be most unfair and unfriendly to you 
not to speak of it. What shall I tell him? Or do you 
prefer to see him, yourself?” 

Thus she placed another opportunity before him, and 
this was one from which not even his heightened sensi- 
tiveness need shrink. It solved the question of royal- 
ties, for the publisher would pay them, and Guarda still 
could sing the aria without cost. Yet Ordway hesitated 
a moment. 

“If this had happened — this opportunity, I mean,” he 
said, “a year ago, or before the Boxford Festival, I 
should have jumped at it. Now ” 


The Song and the Singer. 1S1 

“What is the difference now, Mr. Ordway?” 

“The circumstances under which you came to use 
the piece were peculiar.” 

“Decidedly !” and, in spite of the seriousness that was 
upon her, she quivered with the laughter she could not 
wholly suppress. 

“You took it,” continued Ordway, wondering a little 
at her mirth, but forgetting it soon after, “in place of 
an aria that you had bought for your exclusive use. I 
should like it better if you would consider my aria as 
literally replacing the one that was lost. So I would 
have you say to inquirers that the piece is not for 
publication.” 

He was almost happy for a moment. It was clear 
that he had pleased her, and so much was joy. The 
look that she gave him seemed to be inspired by grati- 
tude. 

“Very well,” she said, quietly; “but if you are so 
generous that you will not consider the matter from a 
business point of view, I must do so for you. The 
commercial value of the music will increase the longer 
it is used exclusively. I have only begun to use it, 
you understand. By and by, when the demand for it 
becomes even greater, we will see about publication. 
Now as to these others — you won’t hold them back, 
will you?” 

“No; I will offer them for publication.” 

“Then bring me a bundle of your manuscripts and 
let us make a selection of a group. You will only need 


1 82 The Song and the Singer. 

to tell a publisher that I am going to bring them out 
in recitals to get them accepted at good terms. You 
will bring them to-morrow ?” 

Her manner had become eager and insistent. Ord- 
way replied that he would. 

“Good!” she said. “I shall enjoy so much trying 
such songs with my own voice. How happy you must 
be to be able to write things such as they are !” 

“Happy !” he exclaimed, and turned away abruptly. 

“Yes,” said she; “why not? Doesn’t creative work 
enable you to dwell in an atmosphere of ideality? And 
is it not happiness to see a thing of beauty grow before 
you, and realize that it is you who make it?” 

It is an imperative necessity of love that it should 
be expressed, and the manner of its expression may be 
one thing or another, according to the individual and 
circumstances. It sets light-headed men to gabbling; 
others, of more serious cast, take to writing verses 
which, though they may be torn up shamefacedly in 
later years, serve their purpose for the moment. The 
bitterness of hopeless love demands its vent with equal 
insistence, and it may take advantage of any channel 
that offers. Guarda had opened a gate through which 
Ordway’s restrained agony could find momentary exit 
without, as he thought, betraying its real character. 

“You cannot tell,” he said, vehemently, “unless you 
yourself have the creative impulse, what tortures it is 
capable of inflicting. Its potentiality for disappoint- 
ment, grief, heart-sickness, is infinite! You speak of 


The Song and the Singer. 183 

an atmosphere of ideality ! Why, madame, the com- 
poser suffers most acutely because that is exactly what 
he cannot dwell in ! Unhappily he perceives it, he 
knows what it must be, what reward of happiness there 
must be in it, and his whole life is a hopeless endeavor 
to attain to it. Seldom does he achieve the perfect 
beauty he seeks. In the honest secret of his heart he 
knows that he is constantly contriving failures. He has 
a horribly keen perception of his limitations. Can 
it be happiness to strive eternally for the unattainable? 

“Of course,” he concluded, gloomily, “I speak for 
myself. There may be, doubtless are, composers who 
are unconscious of their limitations. They may indeed 
be happy, and I envy them their conceit. Yes, they 
may be happy — if other circumstances are favorable/’ 

“I confess that I hadn’t thought of it in just this 
way,” said Guarda. “Does it mean that your beautiful 
songs are always just short of what you had hoped 
for them ?” 

“Yes. There are apparent exceptions. I think of 
songs that seem to me now to be perfect within the 
limitations that the words set for them ; but I have 
discovered that such a conviction is unhappily subject 
to change with the lapse of time. Then there is the 
exception that may be described as a composition that 
had not revealed its full beauty to the composer until 
he heard it interpreted by a master. That may be de- 
lusive, too ; but that is the case, madame, with the aria 
you are using. You revealed that to me in such a light 


184 


The Song and the Singer. 


as I had not dreamed of. I don’t care to hear anybody 
else sing it; I don’t want to think that anybody else 
attempts it.” 

“Really,” said she, smiling, but not frivolously, “I 
thought I had learned how to respond to compliments ; 
but I cannot think of a thing to say to that.” 

“Don’t try,” he retorted, sharply. “When it comes 
to happiness I can think of nothing mor^ supreme than 
the ability to interpret beauty as you do. I have 
thought of you as the happiest person I ever met.” 

“Oh !” cried Guarda, as if pained, and “Oh !” again, 
as she stood up with a dramatic gesture. “Me?” she 
went on, in tones of resentful incredulity. “Me happy? 
You are not one who flatters; you speak the truth — • 
and you think of me as happy !” 

“Yes,” said Ordway, blankly. “As you remarked to 
me, why not ?” 

“What have I accomplished?” she demanded, with 
more than his vehemence. “Where am I? The ap- 
plauded soloist of country festivals, the occasional solo- 
ist at symphony concerts in the minor cities ; a person 
talked about because — because, forsooth, between me 
and my manager we induce the newspapers to print 
paragraphs and interviews ! Pah ! is that success ? It 
is but the hard road that must be traveled, I suppose, 
to attain success. Do you know, Mr. Ordway, that I 
cannot get an engagement at the opera? No, I will 
not say that, for of course I can get one — I can join 
the company any time I am willing to accept a second- 


The Song and the Singer. 185 

ary position in it. That I will not do ! I will be first — 
first or nothing! Is there anybody there,” and she 
swept her hand in the direction of the Metropolitan 
Opera House, “you, who speak the truth, tell me — is 
there anybody there who sings better than I do? Or 
as well?” 

“There is nobody who sings to me as you do,” said he. 

“I knew it ! I believe you, for you mean all you say, 
and you are as expert as any. Shall I, then, accept a 
secondary place, or permit any other to stand in the 
front rank? No! I will make them come to me and 
place me where I belong. I want an engagement at 
Baireuth. I want to be sought for by Covent Garden 
and the Grand Opera at Paris. I have sung in these 
latter places — yes, but not as the first. I can be su- 
preme in the provinces ; I must and will be in the cities. 
Till then there is no happiness for Giulia Guarda.” 

She paused, all but breathless, and stood before him, 
tense, beautiful, imposing in her passion. There was a 
false note in her harangue that jarred on her listener, 
but he could not tell why, for he was whelmed by 
her passion and too deeply enmeshed in his own hope- 
less adoration. Moreover, as sincerity is ever a great 
force in itself, he was irresistibly stirred, for, as her 
ambition burst into the flame of hot, unrestrained 
speech, Guarda was for that moment, if she never had 
been before, absolutely and wholly sincere. 

“You speak of the disappointments of your striving/* 
she went on bitterly and disconnectedly, but more qui- 


1 86 The Song and the Singer. 

etly ; a vou see I have mine. I would and will have that 
offered to me for which now I strive ! And do you sup- 
pose that a woman makes no sacrifices of things she 
holds dear for a career such as mine is and will be ? Do 
you think there are not horrid moments when the game 
doesn’t seem worth it? But you keep on striving. I 
know you do. You are the kind that never gives up. 
I, too. I will let nothing stand between me and my 
complete triumph ! My friends shall help me. It is 
one of the keenest disappointments when you find that a 
friend whom you have counted on will not take hold and 
help,” 

“Why !” said Ordway, “it doesn’t seem possible that 
any friend of yours should refuse assistance that was in 
his power.” 

“I have found that it is so. There is your chum, Billy 
Jameson. Only yesterday I showed him how he could 
be of the greatest use to me, as well as himself, and he 
declined so tartly that not even I had the courage to 
explain all I meant.” 

“Has Billy been here?” asked Ordway, with undiplo- 
matic frankness, and his surprise was so evident that 
Guarda laughed. 

“To be sure,” she replied with a touch of her former 
gaiety, and her intense seriousness did not return that 
day. “He is most devoted, Billy is. Oh ! he has shamed 
you completely. Billy has been to see me almost every 
day since I returned.” 

Ordway simply stared. He wished too late that he 


The Song and the Singer. 


187 


had not betrayed his ignorance of Billy’s movements. If 
Billy had wanted him to know, he would have spoken. 

“Dear me !” exclaimed Guarda, all smiles now, “hasn’t 
he said anything about it? Why! I thought you two 
boys told each other everything, just like a pair of 
school girls. How funny !” 

“As a matter of fact,” said Ordway, rather lamely, 
“we see little of each other. His work is largely at 
night, mine almost wholly by day, and our occupations 
do not cross at any point.” 

“Ah !” was Guarda’s non-committal comment. She 
went on directly : “I asked you to bring him with you in 
the hope that in your presence I could explain my ideas 
fully. Perhaps you can tell him and so help me bring 
him to his senses.” 

“I will do anything I can, gladly.” 

“It’s just this,” said Guarda; “Billy is a remarkably 
inventive fellow, don’t you think ?” 

“Very.” 

“And resourceful. I never met anybody more so,” 
Guarda was smiling beautifully, and Ordway did not 
suspect that it was reminiscences that caused her lips to 
curl and her eyes to twinkle. “Such talent,” she contin- 
ued, “could be very useful to me in making my way still 
further up the ladder. I told you how I want an en- 
gagement at Baireuth. Now, Billy, with his newspaper 
connections, influence, and inventiveness, could be very 
helpful to that end and others to follow. So I offered 
him a position as my press agent. I got as far as to 


1 88 The Song- and the Singer. 

tell him that I would pay him more than he is now 
making, when he flared up in the most provoking way 
and positively refused to continue the conversation. 
When I tried to press the subject he made remarks 
about boots and shoes, and hats, and opera cloaks, and 
a lot of nonsense.” 

“Perhaps,” suggested Ordway, “Billy feels that there 
is something undignified in being a press agent.” 

“Then he should have let me explain. I mean to 
make him my manager. Acting as press agent would be 
merely going into training for that higher and much 
more lucrative position. Billy doesn’t know every- 
thing. He ought to be willing to learn, and in a short 
time, a year at the most, I am sure he would be able to 
take the management of a star with confidence and suc- 
cess. Put it to him that way, will you, Mr. Ordway ?” 

“I certainly will, but if Billy has made up his mind, it 
will be a hard thing to move him.” 

“He must change his mind, and he will, when he un- 
derstands that he hadn’t heard the whole proposition.” 

Ordway reiterated his promise, and again made a 
move toward departure. Guarda thereupon reminded 
him of his promise to call again on the morrow with his 
manuscripts, and, before he could say yea or nay, her 
eyes flashed and the color leaped to her cheeks as a new 
thought came to her. 

“Mr. Ordway !” she exclaimed, “did you never dream 
of opera?” 

“Of writing one?” he responded. “How could I help 


The Song and the Singer. 189 

it? The trouble is that America offers such scant op- 
portunities for production.” 

“America !” she cried ; “you have the world before 
you ! Think of it, Mr. Ordway, an opera for me ! Oh ! 
you could write such a grand one. I can feel it not 
only in your music, but your poems. See the unusual 
advantages you would be under. You would be your 
own librettist; your art fancies could have free swing; 
the play would be what you designed, not the structure 
of another. You would have me in mind, but that 
wouldn’t be a sorry limitation, would it? I won’t ask 
you to answer that, for I wouldn’t like to think that you 
had made merely a pretty speech to a woman who fished 
for compliments, and you have already said nicer things 
to me than I ever heard from anybody else. Think of 
the opera, Mr. Ordway. Oh ! haven’t you a plot ready 
made that we can discuss this very minute ?” 

“I’m afraid not,” he stammered, thrilling under the 
eagerness with which she presented this amazing oppor- 
tunity to him. “The very thought of it bewilders 


“But you’d like to write an opera, wouldn’t you? For 
me?” 

“Like to ! Why ! Madame, no sacrifice ” 

“You wouldn’t need to sacrifice, Mr. Ordway. I will 
commission the work. Ah ! I wonder I haven’t thought 
of this before. It is a glorious idea. It should be 
brought out in Europe somewhere, of course — Milan, 
perhaps, or Vienna, and we would keep it in Europe 


190 


The Song and the Singer. 


till its success had made America hungry for it. We 
would take it all over the civilized world. Think of it, 
Mr. Ordway. I won’t ask you for a decision now, for I 
can understand that you will need to think, but it will 
be only of details. I shall think, too. I will tell you 
tomorrow just what kind of a part I should like to have 
in it. So, good-bye, and when you come tomorrow, 
have your head full of operatic ideas.” 


IV. 

When I hear a man vaporing over his love fey* a 
woman, even though I am his intimate friend, I pity her. 

— The Hermit. 

Ordway walked around for an hour or two in a de- 
lirious transport, suffering much pain, conscious of 
much joy. It had been joy as well as pain to be near 
her, and he persuaded himself that he had passed 
through the ordeal without exposing his infatuation. 
She had opened her heart to him, unreservedly, as he 
firmly believed. Ambition plainly was the mainspring 
of her character ; well, then love could not enter. 
What, except his own repugnance to fostering a hope- 
less passion, was there to prevent him from taking such 
mixed pleasure as might be found in friendly association 
with her ? Aye, and in collaboration with her ! 

The operatic bee buzzed loudly. How she had of- 
fered him advantages that any eager composer would 
have leaped to grasp ! To be commissioned to write a 
grand opera ! It was a wonderful, dazzling thought. If 
it had been anybody else, anybody in whom he had no 
shadow of personal interest, he would have felt that he 
was walking on air straight into the gateway of the most 
magnificent castle his fancy could build. But to be 

191 


192 


The Song and the Singer. 


commissioned by her ; that was a rub. There might be 
a way around it. He was now making a safe living and 
composing a great deal in a desultory way. Why should 
he not go on composing, but direct his pen to the crea- 
tion of a definite work on lines to be agreed on between 
him and her? Thus, toiling still for his living, he could 
feel that whatever he did for her could be regarded as 
the gift of his love to her, and if eventually both should 
profit from it in a material way, so much the better. In 
any event, his dignity as a lover would not be impaired. 

It was somewhat in this strain that his reason ran, 
and he reflected over and again that he was doubly as- 
sured that this course could in no wise become injurious 
to her. He had thought of that possibility before. It 
was one of the arguments that restrained him from call- 
ing previous to her command to do so. Now, certain 
in his idealization of her that she would not suspect him 
guilty of cherishing an untoward passion, and again 
certain that her own ambition would blind her eyes and 
close her heart, he felt that the existence of that passion 
never could be known, and thus scandal, that hovers 
ever over the lives of public singers, would not venture 
to swoop down upon her. 

Finical reasoning, perhaps, and faulty certainly, but 
generous. 

There were other considerations to give his thoughts 
exercise. What about Billy ? Why had Billy not men- 
tioned at least casually that he had been to see Guarda? 
Ordway remembered his conjectures in Boxford ; then 


The Song and the Singer. 


193 


he thought of Philadelphia. Billy was an imperturbable 
liar on occasion ; had he lied about that journey to Phila- 
delphia ? What sardonic comedy it would be if it should 
prove that Billy and himself were rivals in a love affair 
equally hopeless for both ! Ordway wished Billy would 
be frank with him. 

They seldom met at dinner unless Ordway went down 
town to join Billy and some of the newspaper boys at a 
table d’hote. He would have done so now, but that it 
was his chief desire to be alone with his. friend. Ac- 
cordingly he dined alone and then sat up to wait for 
Billy, who, by reason of his morning assignment, came 
home early ; that is, about midnight. 

“It was impossible, Bert,” said the reporter, the mo- 
ment he entered. “Shooting scrap down Staten Island 
way. As chief crook on the paper, I was sent. Didn't 
get back till evening. Did you see her?” 

“Certainly. I waited for a reasonable time, and 
thought you might run in before I got away. It was all 
right.” 

“What was all right ?” 

“Your absence.” 

“Oh! Well?” 

“She wants to do some o* my songs in recitals.” 

Billy nodded sagely. “She knows,” he said. “I sup- 
pose, of course, that you declined to let her do so. No 
reason at all, you know; just a manifestation of Ord- 
wayism that his friends are learning to expect and en- 
dure.” 


194 The Song and the Singer. 

“I didn’t decline. Fm going to show her some pieces 
tomorrow.” 

“Incredible !” 

With an extravagant affectation of solicitude, Billy 
went to Ordway and felt his pulse. 

“Seems to be normal,” he muttered; “temperature a 
bit high, but he’ll probably get through the night. Yes, 
my friend, I think you’ll recover. Was there any other 
dangerous symptom?” 

Ordway smiled. It was seldom that he could not be a 
good audience for Billy’s nonsense. 

“She talks,” he answered, “of commissioning me to 
write a grand opera.” 

Billy’s eyes bulged and his lips parted. He said, “Ah ! 
ah!” two or three times. Then he gesticulated as if 
waving his hat in the air, and his lips framed the word 
“Hurrah,” but no sound issued. Utterly unable to find 
words adequate to his jubilation over what appeared to 
him the greatest possible good fortune for his friend, 
he ran to the pianoforte and pounded the keys fortis- 
simo, bellowing the while inarticulately in some unde- 
fined tonality foreign to the chords wrenched from the 
helpless instrument. 

The reporter was no pianist. He could accompany a 
coon song if the harmonies strayed not away from plain 
tonic and dominant, and if, perchance, his hands became 
tangled and he played tonic with his left and dominant 
with his right, his enthusiasm was merely stimulated by 
the results; for his was a nature too large to be dis- 


The Song and the Singer. 


195 


turbed by little things like discords and false progres- 
sions. So, now, he thumped out cacophony and roared, 
at first to Ordway’s great amusement, until the wrathful 
tenant in the flat overhead began to pound sharply on 
the floor. 

“Shut up !” yelled Billy ; “you’ve got to stand it. I’m 
composing.” 

Ordway pulled him away from the instrument. 

“Oh ! these interruptions !” groaned Billy. “Here !” 
and he grabbed a sheet of music paper from the pile on 
the book-case and spread it on the table. “Take it 
down,” said he. 

“Take what down?” asked Ordway. 

“What I was playing, silly ! It would be just stunning 
for a climax in the opera. You’re welcome to it. Can’t 
you see the scene? Bow-legged barytone binding the 
soprano heroine with a poisoned rope; row of girls in 
pink tights all around the stage; some Bowery toughs 
in the background, made up as brigands, and singing 
‘See ! See !’ Hero tenor leaping to the rescue from a 
forty-foot clitf by means of an invisible wire ; foiled con- 
tralto, at right of prompt box, swallowing her love let- 
ters and singing ‘Woe! Woe! Weh ist Mir!’ Eh?” 

“I’m afraid it’s too exalted a theme for me,” said Ord- 
way ; “you’d better write the opera yourself.” 

“Ha! and rob you of your opportunity? Not I ! But 
I say, old man, seriously, isn’t it immense? Gee! It 
makes up for a whole lot, that does.” 


196 The Song and the Singer. 

“Makes up for what, Billy asked Ordway, cau- 
tiously. 

The reporter darted a look of suspicious inquiry at his 
friend, but with hardly a perceptible pause, he answered, 
“Why, rotten assignments, drudgery, and all that sort of 
thing. You don’t suppose I’m infatuated with my 
career, do you?” 

“No. Guarda says she offered you a way out of it.” 

“Huh !” 

“Why didn’t you say that you had been to see her ?” 

“Great Scott! You hadn’t led me to suspect that you 
cared to hear anything about the lady. You sniffed at 
the suggestion that we call on her together. If I had 
supposed you were interested in her ” 

“I haven’t said I was,” interrupted Ordway, hastily. 
I wish you wouldn’t be quite so loose in your statements 
when we are talking seriously.” 

“Pardon me,” responded Billy, solemnly. “I will be 
Johnsonian henceforth.” 

“Were you Johnsonian in your answer to Guarda’s 
suggestion that you become her press agent?” 

“Not exactly.” 

“What did you tell her?” 

“I believe I allowed that I was something of a liar, but 
I disclaimed sufficient ability for that situation.” 

“Nonsense, Billy! She has told me all about it. She 
wants you eventually to become her manager.” 

“Huh !” 

“Doesn’t that put a more attractive light on it?” 


The Song and the Singer. 


197 


“No.” 

“Why not ? You’ve often said that there’s no accumu- 
lation in newspaper work. This offers opportunity for 
much greater income.” 

“I won’t touch it.” 

“Why not?” 

“My son,” said Billy, “I have reasons.” 

He began to make ready for going to bed. Inter- 
rupting this operation, he went to the table at which 
Ordwa\ sat, and leaned with both his hands upon it. 

“There is just one thing that might tempt me,” he 
said, looking his friend squarely in the eyes. 

“What is it?” 

“If you will accept Guarda’s commission to write that 
opera, I will consider her proposition to me.” 

Ordway tried to meet Billy’s gaze steadily, and failed. 

So, averting his eyes, and fumbling carelessly with his 
papers, he said, “I think of working at an opera just as 
I have been dabbing at stray songs, pianoforte pieces, 
and the like. No commission would be necessary for 
that.” 

“Huh !” grunted Billy, and he went into his bedroom. 

Thus these two played at evasion. The closest of 
friends, each had an experience too sacred to expose to 
the other, and neither was quite sure how the other 
stood. Each was troubled not only for himself, but for 
his friend. 

It was with elation and eagerness that Ordway took 
his songs to Guarda on the following afternoon. The 


1 98 


The Song and the Singer. 


event passed tranquilly. They tried the songs and de- 
bated them, selecting those that went best together and 
eventually agreeing upon a series that, with one song to 
be added, would make a satisfactory cycle. This was 
Guarda’s suggestion, and Ordway did not oppose it, 
though he sat at the keyboard with corrugated brow 
while she gave her views. It was wholly an art argu- 
ment 

“There must be a poetic climax,” said she, “or, at 
least, such an ending as seems to be a complete conclu- 
sion. The cycle mustn’t end in mid air.” 

“Isn’t it possible to suppose,” he suggested, “that the 
poet has not arrived at the solution of his problems ?” 

It should hardly be necessary to say that it was a cycle 
of love songs they were constructing. 

“Yes,” she answered, “in real life, but it won’t do in 
art.” 

“Then what should be the nature of the climax?” he 
asked. 

“Oh ! I am no poet, Mr. Ordway.” 

“But you can suggest.” 

“I haven’t an .ca ” 

Pardon me, you have. You don’t need to suggest 
lines, or thoughts, but you can at least choose which of 
the two possible climaxes you prefer.” 

“Only two possible ?” 

“That’s all. Happiness and tragedv. The cycle must 
end either with the note of joy, or that of despair.” 

“I see! Then, Mr. Ordway, let it be joy for once. 


The Song and the Singer. 199 

Don’t you think there’s gloom enough in the art song 
as it is?” 

“Yes, and in the world.” 

“Then we’ll reform it!” she cried. “You shall finish 
with the triumph of joy, and between us we will set a 
new fashion.” 

In the course of the call she alluded to the opera and 
to Billy. Ordway told her that he would undertake the 
opera, but asked her to wait till he could submit a 
scenario before discussing the matter further, and that 
satisfied her. 

“As for Billy,” he said, “you’ll have to fight it out with 
him, yourself. I can do nothing with him.” 

There was little in this meeting to alloy the pleasure 
Ordway derived from it. He was entrenched in his con- 
viction that his course was not only honorable, but pru- 
dent. The emotional stress of the day before seemed 
to have strengthened, or relieved him, and while his 
heart ached dully, he was not again put to confusion and 
torment by the touch of her hand, the engaging brill- 
iancy of her glances as they debated, or the wealth of 
feeling she infused into his songs. On the whole, he en- 
joyed the day, and it may be said that one element con- 
tributory to his comparative content was the sense of 
martyrdom with which he accepted the situation. 

The song of joy was written, words and music, that 
night, and tried by Guarda on the following day. She 
was delighted with it, and nothing would do but she 
must make an appointment for the publisher of whom 


200 


The Song and the Singer. 


she had spoken, to meet them there the day after, to 
hear the whole cycle. 

So, one event leading to another, they met frequently, 
and not once were their art discussions conducted in the 
presence of Signor Napoli. Guarda’s husband was in- 
deed well trained. 


V. 

Women, like princes, find few real friends. 

— Lord Lyttelton. 

If this narration were devoted particularly to the 
deeds and misdeeds of Billy Jameson, it would have 
been necessary ere now to make painful note of the re- 
currence of that distemper that was the despair not only 
of his friends, but of the victim himself. Few suspected 
that his inebriety gave Billy any serious concern save 
for the brief period of nerve-racked remorse that must 
follow excessive indulgence in alcoholic liquors. He 
always bore himself with smiling face in the office, and 
wherever acauaintances were to be met. In truth, too, 
the mask of nonchalance and irrepressible humor that 
deceived the casual observer, was made to serve for his 
own deceit, also. He would not admit to himself, when 
by any strenuous effort of proud will he could help it, 
that he drank more than was good for him, or that he 
could not let liquor alone if he really chose to do so. 
He had not chosen, that was all. From now on his 
choice was made — till the next time. 

It was the old story, and not to be dwelt on purpose- 
lessly, but in justice to Billy, who needs it, let it be un- 
derstood that in fact, as time passed, and one excess 
201 


202 


The Song and the Singer. 


followed another, his periods of purely alcoholic reac- 
tion — that is, remorse — were prolonged beyond the or- 
dinary measure, and he knew cold, calm despair. The 
boys in the office were not aware of it, but Ordway no- 
ticed and grieved. Now and again he would come upon 
Billy in their rooms, sitting moody and worn, his face 
deeply drawn, his attitude the picture of dejection. The 
reporter seldom failed to rally on the instant, and if his 
humor lacked its ordinary spontaneity, it was a sufficient 
warning that behind it lay a territory upon which not 
even the most intimate friend might trespass. 

Ordway was not always sure what caused Billy’s 
melancholy. Their manner of living was such that 
days often passed without a spoken word between them. 
The reporter came home habitually subsequent to mid- 
night, by which time Ordway was regularly asleep, and 
if he came in at daybreak, Ordway could not know the 
difference ; or, if he chanced to awake, be certain that it 
was not the tracing of lugubrious crime, or the descrip- 
tion of a fire that had kept his friend on the go to so late 
an hour. By nine o’clock in the morning, Ordway was 
with his organ pupils at the church where he played, and 
as Billy seldom breakfasted until after he had reported 
for duty and received his afternoon assignment, it was 
really accident that brought them together. So, though 
he knew that Billy’s pledge had been broken repeatedly, 
Ordway was far from realizing the extent to which the 
vice, or disease, call it which you will, had developed. 
He feared one thing and suspected another. It might 


The Song and the Singer. 


203 


be that the poison of alcohol was undermining Billy’s 
mental as well as physical force, and it might be that he, 
too, had become infatuated hopelessly with Guarda. 

Persons whose lives run tranquilly and who know ine- 
briety only by hearsay, may be stirred to double wonder 
and possibly to resentment at Ordway’s attitude in the 
circumstances. Why, first, did he not exert himself 
strenuously to save his friend? Why, second, did he 
tolerate such behavior — that is, why did he not part 
from Billy in disgust and contempt, when he knew cer- 
tainly as much as that the reporter had broken his sol- 
emn word ? 

The answer, to those who know, is wonderfully sim- 
ple. Ordway did all that any man could do to arrest his 
friend’s descent. He braved Billy’s resentment, crossed 
the line at which the “No Trespass” was plainly set, and 
boldly faced him with questions that placed him between 
the horns of a dilemma. Either he was hopelessly in 
love with Madame Napoli, or he was over-drinking. 
Which was it? And Billy wrathfully declined to fix 
himself on either horn. The evidence of heavy drinking 
was palpable for three days thereafter. He seemed at 
pains to flaunt his excesses in Ordway’s presence. Then, 
in comparative sobriety, he went, haggard and red-eyed, 
to Ordway and said : 

“I am not hopelessly in love with Guarda. I have 
been drinking too much. I want to be friends, old man. 
If my habits are offensive to you, we’d better break 
away. Shall it be divorce ? I can’t stand for very heavy 


204 The Song and the Singer. 

alimony, you know,” and he smiled in a ghastly way. 

“It isn’t the question whether it’s offensive to me,” 
Ordway replied. “It’s yourself, Billy. You mustn’t go 
to pieces.” 

“I’m not going to pieces. Just let me alone, Bert. 
Is it friends?” 

Those who know will understand that after this there 
was nothing for Ordway but to endure. Any strenuous 
exertion to save his friend was calculated to speed his 
steps on the downward path. As to the second ques- 
tion: There is a friendship that women who love wot 
not of. It has the power to bind men together more 
firmly than men and women are bound together by mat- 
rimony. Ages before Damon and Pythias, it was a 
mighty force in the wrangling world. It is generous 
where love is selfish, and when love rises to that height 
where it endureth all things and is kind, it might with 
propriety change its name and call itself friendship. 
Such was the relation maintained by these two young 
men, and, having said so much for and against Billy, the 
narration may return to those events with which it is 
primarilv concerned. 

There had been a concert at which Guarda sang. As 
a matter of course, Ordway was in the audience, al- 
though his aria had not been “smuggled into the pro- 
gramme.” Billy had planned to go with him, and they 
had seats together, but the reporter had made his ar- 
rangements on the chance that he could get “off” for the 
evening, and at the last moment a ruffian in Paterson 


The Song and the Singer. 205 

had the bad taste to knock a fellow ruffian on the head 
with a mallet, and there was a general mix-up of a thrill- 
ing character when the police arrested the murderer. 
The city editor sent Billy to Paterson to the end that the 
thrills might effectively be communicated to an eager 
world on the following morning. So, Ordway had a 
vacant seat beside him, and shortly after the concert be- 
gan, Mr. Bosworth dropped into it. 

Mr. Bosworth has been referred to in these pages as 
the regular critic for Billy’s paper. It is a pity that so 
great a person has to figure in this history as such a lay 
character that it is necessary to remind the reader of his 
existence and station, but, when you think of it, the 
world’s affairs include many from which truly great per- 
sonalities are absent. Ordway and Bosworth had been 
introduced to each other, by Billy, of course, shortly 
after the former’s arrival in town, and they were on very 
friendly terms. Between the first and second numbers 
of the concert, Bosworth said: 

“I happened to meet your alter ego at the office. He 
asked me to say that the city editor had lassoed him and 
that therefore he couldn’t join you.” 

“ I presumed that was the case,” Ordway responded. 
“Are you alone ? Then sit here, will you ?” 

Bosworth nodded and they gave their attention to the 
performance. Nothing need be said of it, save that 
Guarda’s popular success was unequivocal, and an idea 
of how she pleased the elect may be gathered from a 
remark by Bosworth after her appearance. “The girl 


206 


The Song and the Singer. 


can sing, can’t she?” said he, to which Ordway replied 
that he thought so. 

During the final number, which was a symphonic piece 
perfectly familiar to the critic, Bosworth retired to write 
his verdict and send it to the office by messenger. He 
rejoined Ordway while the audience was dispersing, and, 
quite as was ordinary with them on such occasions, they 
went to Kinkel’s. This was a place highly esteemed on 
account of its beer, without which, of one brew or an- 
other, no musical problem ever is solved for good and 
all. The tribe of fiddlers was numerously represented 
at the tables when Ordway and the critic went in, and 
recruits came speedily from the orchestra that had been 
playing at the concert. All of them save possibly a few 
who had arrived from Europe within a week, knew who 
Bosworth was, and some of them had the privilege of 
bowing to the great man. A few really were acquainted 
with him, and these naturally drifted to his table. 

The talk was general and vivacious, Ordway’s share 
being, as usual, that of an interested and contented lis- 
tener. Sometimes, at meetings like this, he was fas- 
cinated with furious debates upon moot questions in 
music. A man might unwittingly mention Brahms as 
he set down his glass, and, piff ! out would burst a tirade 
from some other, and the whole structure of music 
raised by Brahms would come tumbling around them, 
only to be resurrected when the severe enthusiast at the 
other side of the table had his innings. It is said that 
Brahms has been killed more than a thousand times by 


The Song and the Singer. 


207 


actual count at Kinkel’s tables. Wagner, too, and all 
his operas have been condemned to oblivion there, and 
a host of performers, vocal and instrumental, have been 
obliterated from the face of the musical world. 

But there is a broad humanity about the slaughters at 
Kinkel’s. If nobody is at hand to raise the dead, there 
is something in the cheerful atmosphere that does it, for 
behold, Brahms and Wagner, and others far too nu- 
merous to mention, continue to hold their own while the 
fiery fiddlers, and the clarinetists, and the cornists, yea, 
and the critics and the tympanists, continue their de- 
structive debates. On this occasion nothing promised 
in the way of spicy talk until Calloway came in. It takes 
at least two to make a satisfactory debate, and when the 
gentlemen of the strings, wood, and brass, found 
nothing better to remark upon than the general stupidity 
and worthlessness of the country out of which they were 
getting a better living than they could have dreamed of 
in the fatherland, there was nobody to say them nay, for 
the two Americans present let the slurs pass in con- 
temptuous silence. There was a change in the mood as 
soon as Calloway was seen coming in at the door and 
looking around for acquaintances. 

This person who enters now for his short “turn” may 
be described most briefly as a man about town. The 
phrase is familiar, and the type is equally so, though it 
may be premised that not every man about town gives 
more than passing attention to serious music. Ac- 
cording to popular apprehension, such a person is more 


208 


The Song and the Singer. 


given to the front row in the chorus of comic opera. 
Calloway was far superior to the front row of the chorus. 
He had no end of money, judging from the fact that he 
went everywhere, dressed expensively, and paid his bills. 
It pleased him to pose as a patron of the art and to asso- 
ciate in a free and easy way with musicians of all ranks. 
Therefore, everybody who knew anybody knew Callo- 
way, and Ordway was no exception. They had been on 
bowing terms for two years. 

“Veil,” said a fiddler, when Calloway sat down beside 
Ordway, after a general greeting to the company, “you 
haf heard her, hein ?” 

“Yes,” he answered in his slow, superior way; “I 
went, I heard and saw, and was conquered.” 

He turned to Bosworth to explain that other engage- 
ments had prevented him from hearing Guarda at any 
previous apoearance since her return from abroad. 
“She’s developed amazingly,” he added. 

“You like her?” asked the fiddler. 

“Very much. I think I should like her as much even 
if she couldn’t sing. Fact is, she made quite an impres- 
sion on me when she appeared as Siebel, some years 
ago. She couldn’t sing then, but she had a charming 
figure. It’s hardly possible that that should have im- 
proved as much as her voice has meantime, but I ven- 
ture to assume that it hasn’t deteriorated. Ask the gen- 
tlemen what they will have,” he concluded, addressing 
the aproned waiter who stood by. 

The fiddler laughed coarsely. 


The Song and the Singer. 


209 


“You haf taste, Mr. Callovay,” said he. 

“That’s a doubtful compliment, Schulze,” drawled 
Calloway; “any man may pretend to taste when it’s a 
matter of the feminine form divine. As for Guarda, I 
don’t remember that I’ve ever seen such impressive— er 
— supoorts behind the footlights. Come, Ordway, what 
are you going to have ?” 

The waiter had made the round of the table and come 
to Ordway, beside whom he stood inquiringly. 

“Nothing,” said Ordway, sharply. 

Calloway noticed the tone, and raised his brows in 
languid surprise, but it did not serve as a warning. “I 
make it a point never to urge a man,” said he, easily; 
“mine will be Muenchner.” 

“Ach !” said one who apparently thought it discreet to 
flatter the wealthy rounder, “Guarda will do well now to 
remember her name. Ven Mr. Callovay haf impression 
so deep, she better haf been on her guard, yet.” 

“But she’s married,” suggested another. 

“Donner! vat difference?” asked the first. “How is 
dot, Mr. Callovay?” 

“Well,” replied the rounder, “the indications are that 
Guarda isn’t disposed to let that decrepit husband of 
hers stand in the way. A husband of that sort is a con- 
venience to a woman like her, like a ghost, you know, to 
scare away the timid. When a man comes who has the 
requisite means, address, youth, and all that sort of 
thing, you know ” 

Ordway was suddenly on his feet. He put his left 


210 


The Song- and the Singer. 


hand on Calloway’s shoulder and brought his right, 
palm open, violently against the rounder’s mouth. 

“Before it gets any worse,” said he, and taking his 
handkerchief, he carefully wiped his right hand. 

Calloway, at first too amazed to speak, flushed hot 
and pushed his chair back from the table. Bosworth 
arose hastily and put his hand on Ordway’s shoulder. 
The fiddlers stared, and at near-by tables heads were 
quickly turned. 

“By God!” exclaimed Calloway, at last, rising, “you 
constitute yourself the woman’s champion, do you? 
And do you think ” 

He drew back to strike. Ordway stood where he 
was, but his fists were ready for what might come. 

Bosworth stepped quickly to Calloway. 

“For heaven’s sake, Jack,” he urged in a low tone, 
“not here, not here.” 

Some of the fiddlers got up and made a pretence of 
getting between the men. One of them ventured to 
push Ordway and was dropped back into his chair with 
disquieting suddenness for his pains. Rustic muscle as 
well as rustic temper was in evidence at that moment. 

The manager of the place came running up. Men 
were leaving their tables in all parts of the room. 

“Gentlemen,” began the manager, but it was unnec- 
essary to go further. 

Calloway tossed a bill on the table. 

“I’ll return for the change,” said he, and, with a 
savage look of inquiry at Ordway, strode to the door. 



Brought his right palm, open, violently against the rounder’s mouth. 

See page 210. 

































# 



The Song and the Singer. 


211 


Ordway followed, and KinkeFs patrons joined eagerly 
in the procession. 

On the sidewalk before the place, Bosworth was 
pleading frantically with Calloway. 

“You don’t need to let it pass, man,” Bosworth was 
saying. ‘‘I simply say that this is not the place for it. 
Everybody knows that you are no coward. Your rep- 
utation isn’t going to suffer for a little discretion. 
Look at this mob !” 

“Damn the mob !” retorted Calloway. “Where’s the 
prig?” 

“At your service,” said Ordway, “here, now, or any 
time.” 

“Oh !” groaned Bosworth, forcibly restraining the 
rounder, “one would suppose you were both drunk ” 

“Let me alone, Bosworth,” cried Calloway. “I’m not 
drunk. I’m as sober as you are ” 

“I know, but the appearances, man; can’t you think 
of that? Another time and place will do as well and 

better” and so on, taking swift advantage of the 

effect of his imputation on Calloway’s sobriety. 

It served to divert the rounder’s attention. The night 
air was like a wet cloth on his brow. Bosworth’s per- 
sistent interference wrought upon him. He glared 
around at the eager faces turned toward him in the gas 
light. 

Bosworth appealed to Ordway. 

“Go home, will you?” he said. “Do a little thinking 
on your own account and try to avoid scandal.” 


212 


The Song and the Singer. 


The advice came to Ordway as a shock. Of a sudden 
he saw the episode. Up to that instant he had been 
merely a part of it. 

“You’re right/’ he answered, huskily. “Mr. Callo- 
way knows where to find me.” 

He turned and went at once, hearing Bosworth’s voice 
again appealing to Calloway to reflect and wait his op- 
portunity. 

Burning with shame, hot with indignation, and trem- 
bling with a dozen conflicting emotions, he sank into a 
chair when he arrived at his rooms, and put his hands to 
his head. Presently he took a book and opened it at a 
marked place. It was a treatise on the philosophy of 
music, a profound work, and hard reading at the best. 
He applied himself to this, and in the course of half an 
hour he had turned one page. Persistence told. It 
took less than half an hour to get by the next page, and 
he was making something like progress when Billy 
dashed in. 

Ordway had heard him on the stairs, and he laid down 
the book. 

Billy strode across the room, his eyes blazing with ex- 
citement, and grasped Ordway’s hand, wringing it hard. 

“Bully for you !” he cried ; “oh ! three times bully for 
you !” 

“You’ve heard of it, then?” asked Ordway, sombrely. 

“Luckily, yes. I was just in time to keep it out of the 
paper.” 

Ordway shuddered. Publicity, a smartly written story 


The Song and the Singer. 


213 


under sensational headlines, had seemed to stare at him 
the moment when Bosworth advised him to go home. 

“You didn’t think of that, did you?” asked Billy. 

“Not at the time, Billy. If you had been there, you 
would probably understand.” 

“Oh ! What wouldn’t I give if I had been able to be 
there ! Gee ! They didn’t think it of you, did they ? And 
Jack Calloway, too ! Oh ! It’s too rich to believe.” 

“Don’t, Billy,” said Ordway. “I think it’s too horri- 
ble.” 

“Well, it wouldn’t be nice in print, I’ll admit, but I 
guess that’s safe enough now. The only bother is as to 
what it may lead to. We shall have to think that over, 
old man.” 

“I tried to think, and it seemed necessary to wait till 
\ou got home. Tell me how you heard about it, and 
exactly what you heard. I suppose the wildest exag- 
gerations ” 

“Maybe. It was this way. I was on the way home, 
and met Charlie Hall, of our paper. You remember 
him? He asked if I thought he would find you awake 
if he called. I said no, and wanted to know what was 
up. Said there was a corking story in something he’d 
heard at Kinkel’s. All the crowd there was discussing a 
fracas between you and Calloway. Of course, he got 
particulars ” 

“What did he get?” interrupted Ordway; “that’s just 
what I want to know.” 

“Why! that Calloway had said something insulting 


214 


The Song and the Singer. 


about Guarda, and that you slapped his face/' 

“Well? What else ?” 

“That was what Hall wanted to get from you. No- 
body seemed to be sure what Calloway said, but the fact 
that you wiped your hand coolly after smashing his dirty 
mouth with it had not been lost as a part of the spectacle, 
and one man said he said one thing and another another. 
The Germans suppose that there will be a duel.” 

Ordway writhed. “Go on,” he groaned. 

“It seems that Bosworth got Calloway to go away, 
went with him, in fact, and the musicians, of course, went 
back to finish their beer. So did Boz, after a time. He 
was brimming with it then. The excitement was over, 
and he enjoyed telling of it. Hall got a straight ac- 
count from him. He had tried to find Calloway, but 
failed. I persuaded him that the matter ought not to 
be published, and there you are.” 

“Yes, just at the beginning,” said Ordway, bitterly. 

“Possibly ; and yet Calloway isn’t going to tell about 
it. I’ve shut off Hall, and Pve put a note in the mail to 
Boz. He’ll get it in the early morning, and after that 
he’ll hold his tongue. Of course, there’s no stopping 
the musicians, but the talk may just wear itself out 
among them before it comes to the ears of any news- 
paper man.” 

“It may come to her.” 

“Well, yes, but I should think if it did she would be 
glad to realize that she had a friend who would resent 
any slur cast upon her.” 


The Song- and the Singer. 


215 


“That isn’t the point at all, Billy. I’m inclined to 
think that friendship with a woman is out of the ques- 
tion — a woman in public life, I mean.” 

“I’m afraid there’s a good deal in that,” admitted 
Billy, gravely. 

“I shall never forget what Calloway said,” continued 
Ordway, in gloomy reminiscence, and his pale face 
flushed. “ ‘The indications are,’ said Calloway,” and 
here Ordway stopped abruptly. “You see, Billy,” he re- 
sumed after a pause, “I’ve been at the hotel a good deal 
recently. Calloway may have had me in mind when he 
spoke in that indirect fashion. If he didn’t, others may. 
There’s no limit to the interpretation that men like him 
will place on the matter, especially now that I’ve cuffed 
him in public.” 

“You know how I feel about that,” said Billy. “It 
seems like the best thing that ever happened, but it does 
suggest trouble.” 

“An end of friendship.” 

“I don’t know,” and Billy was very thoughtful ; “I 
don’t know. It won’t do for you to get out of touch 
with Guarda. Isn’t it for her to say ” 

“No!” interrupted Ordway, emphatically; “you know 
better, Billy. It’s the part of a man to safeguard his 
friend’s reputation. I’ve been selfish. I did think about 
it, and that’s what makes it all the worse. I was foolish 
enough to suppose that a man might do what is right 
and pass unchallenged.” 

“Well,” said Billy, with a chuckle, “there’s old Na- 


2l6 


The Song- and the Singer. 


poli. On my word, I don’t see how he could be a real 
bar to conversation about manuscripts. Whenever I 
pass him I expect to hear him crackle like a sheet of 
paper. Why not get Guarda to stand him up in a cor- 
ner, or let him smoke his cigarettes ” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Billy!” 
The reporter pursed his lips and nodded several times. 
“No,” said he, “I guess I don’t. Probably we’d better 
sleep on it” ; a proposition to which Ordway agreed by 
going to his own room. 


SCHERZO. 

I. 

There is something pathetically comic in the desire 
of a good woman to see wickedness. 

— The Hermit. 

There was no duel. If it had been in Paris, or Berlin 
— but it was New York. There must have been a tre- 
mendous disturbance in Calloway’s thought area, but 
no official observations were taken of that interesting 
storm center, and consequently no record can be made 
of it without resorting frankly to the imagination. 
Speculation would be easy up to a certain point. 

Suppose you, for example, an American of the nine- 
teenth century, had had your face slapoed in public; 
what would you be inclined to do about it? Ugh! the 
blood boils at the thought of it! But not too fast; 
there is another necessary supposition. Suppose you 
knew you deserved it? And there we have to stop, for, 
with apology to you for even suggesting so much, the 
hypothesis is impossible. You, my dear sir, never have 
been heard to utter a loose word with regard to any 
woman. Your general respect for womanhood is so 
deep that even if impurity should on occasion sully 
your thoughts, discretion would tie your tongue. 

217 


218 


The Song and the Singer. 


So it is really necessary to leave Calloway to himself 
as an exception among men who awaits some frank 
analyst of his own species to interpret for us his emo- 
tions and impulses. 

The storm extended its baleful influence little beyond 
the narrow environment of its center, making itself 
manifest on the rare occasions when slapper and slapped 
chanced to meet, by a sudden clouding and chilling of the 
atmosphere, a manifestation that was dissipated speedily 
by the prompt withdrawal of one or both of them. 
And that was all. If it happened that a stranger to the 
circumstances observed that the two men were not on 
speaking terms, he was ouietly informed of the affair 
at Kinkel’s, the narration always proceeding with an 
accompaniment of chuckles ; and, oddly enough, it 
seemed generally to be regarded that the laugh was on 
Ordway. Surely there are strange ideas in the minds 
of the most ordinary men ! 

One morning very shortly after this occurrence, Ord- 
way saw a sheet of paper tucked part way under the 
door of his bedroom. While he was dressing, he won- 
dered idly how it came there, and when he was ready 
to go out he picked it up. There was writing on it in 
Billy’s hand to this effect : 

“You must wake and call me early, call me early, 
mother dear, 

For to-morrow’ll be a crazy day — our Jane will then 
be here.” 


The Song and the Singer. 


219 


Ordway went into Billy’s room and aroused him. 

“Is there anything in this nonsense?” he asked. 

“What nonsense?” returned Billy, yawning. Then 
he glanced at the paper and lay back, shaking with 
laughter. 

“Jane’s on the way,” said he. 

“Jane Twitched ?” 

“Yes, and Barbara Kendall. You know, they spoke 
of it at Boxford — that is, Jane did. Find her letter to 
me on the piano and read it while I’m dressing.” 

Jane wrote a letter too long to quote in full, but here 
is a part of it. 

“Of course, we shall go shopping. I’m going to 
spend three dollars in Twenty-third street, two dollars 
in Sixth avenue, and fifty cents in Fourteenth street. 
I shall buy a box of Huyler’s on Broadway somewhere, 
for I suppose ivir. Huyler keeps store on that famous 
thoroughfare. Ui course, we want to see the Brooklyn 
Bridge, and Central Park, and Grant’s Tomb. We 
want to ride on the Elevated, and go to a theatre, and 
do the Metropolitan Museum, and see the Statue of 
Liberty. Also we want to see Jay Gould’s house, and 
Vanderbilt’s, and Fifth avenue, and the place where 
Beecher preached. Also the Tribune Building, if it’s 
the same as when Horace Greeley used to edit it — the 
paper, I mean ; not the building, silly ! 

“And, now, Billy, listen: Two old maids — for I’m 
one, and proud of it, and Barbara — well, Barbara’s get- 
ting on, and Fm getting to have my opinion of a certain 


220 


The Song- and the Singer. 


blind fool of a man who’s letting her waste her sweet- 
ness on the desert air of East Wilton; I’ll give him a 
piece of my mind if he doesn’t sit up. As I was saying, 
we have no right to demand too much of a busy man 
like yourself, so don’t think you’ve got to make sacri- 
fices for two unprotected females. Just plan our routes 
for us and put us in charge of a messenger boy. I’ve 
understood such a thing can be done. We’re going to 
stay a week if I don’t get robbed or sandbagged, and 
some time in that week I want you to give me — me, 
understand; not Barbara — a good share of an evening. 
I want to see things as they are. I want to be shocked. 
Don’t say a word about this, but just arrange to give a 
forlorn old creature whose teeth are coming out some- 
thing that she can chew over for the rest of her life. 
As a newspaper man, you must know how. You set 
the pace, Billy, and Jane will tag along with both eyes 
open. 

“And, Billy, Jane will pay. Let’s have no silliness 
about that. You’ve got uses enough for the money 
you earn. I haven’t earned a cent, and I’ve got more 
than I know what to do with. It’s just heavenly to 
blow it in! I spent a dollar and a quarter yesterday 
for a pair of stockings, and sixty-five cents for a hair 
ribbon ! Oh ! there’s no end to my going it ! At all of 
which I don’t doubt that you are laughing brutally ; bur 
you don’t know what it is to be a penniless old maid 
and darn your twenty-five-cent stockings till there’s 
nothing left of the original article.” 


The Song and the Singer. 


221 


Jane did not say so, and Ordway did not need to be 
told that this proposed pilgrimage had been the sub- 
ject of infinite discussion in East Wilton; that Jane and 
Barbara, and Mrs. Kendall, had debated it generally 
and particularly for weeks, and that it was altogether 
the greatest event that ever had happened, far exceed- 
ing the bi-centennial celebration of the First Church ; 
but city friends had not been invited to participate in 
the preliminary debates, and they were notified only 
when Jane’s mind was fully made up. That done, and 
the trunks packed, Jane had written. 

Ordway looked again at the date line and the first 
paragraph. Billy had found the letter at the office the 
day before. The pilgrims, then, were due to arrive that 
day at three o’clock. 

It was rather sudden, this visitation, this lifting and 
transplanting of his peaceful past into his turbulent 
present. At first Ordway wished they had chosen an- 
other time, and it was not until a day or two had passed 
that he came to see that Fate and Jane had got together 
for some measure of good purpose. He had been men- 
tioned in the letter, directly as well as indirectly, and 
it was clear enough that the women really anticipated 
a good deal of attention from him. He would be glad 
to give it, certainly. It would be a pleasure to show 
the great city to these wondering, appreciative stran- 
gers. His memory dwelt with something like sadness 
on a time when he had dreamed of introducing Bar- 
bara to the bewildering sights of the town. That had 


222 


The Song and the Singer. 


seemed such a happy event in prospect. Now it was 
different; but he supposed he should enjoy their won- 
derment in an impersonal way, as a Cook’s man might 
when he took out his first party of tourists. 

Meantime, as he sat near the window thinking these 
things, Jane’s letter held loosely in his hand, a series 
of grunts and impatient ejaculations issued from Billy’s 
bedroom. They came to a climax in a fervent ‘‘Damn !” 
and then a small object flew through the half-opened 
door and fell with a tinkling into the pianoforte. Next 
there was a sound of bureau drawers pulled open and 
their contents hurriedly rummaged. 

“Funny, isn’t it?” called Billy, during this process. 

“Which?” replied Ordway, indifferently; “Jane’s let- 
ter, or the refractory collar-button?” 

Billy did not reply for a moment. There was another 
naughty word, and then he came into their sitting-room, 
clad in shirt and trousers. A preposterously high col- 
lar was fastened at the back of his neck, but the front 
of his shirt was open and the collar ends scraped against 
his cheeks. He looked worried. 

“It was the last I had,” he said. “Where’d it go?” 

“Into the piano,” Ordway told him. 

Billy bent over the instrument and looked. He saw 
the button he had thrown away, and tried to thrust his 
fingers between the wires and get it. His fingers were 
too thick, or the wires were too close together, which 
amounted to the same thing. 

“Got any spare buttons, Bert?” he asked. 


The Song and the Singer. 223 

“I regret to say I haven’t. I discovered a shortage 
yesterday, but forgot to get any.” 

“Then I’ve simoly got to have this one. Isn’t Jane 

a ” Searching for the lost collar-button and language 

at the same time, he found neither, and concluded help- 
lessly, “Isn’t she?” 

“She seems to be hungering for some sort of excite- 
ment,” said Ordway, “and I don’t know that I wonder. 
She’s all energy and animation, and she doesn’t get 
much outlet at home.” 

“Well, by jiminy! we’ll have to stir her up, eh?” 

“I don’t see that I’m included in that part of the pro- 
gramme.” 

“No; but you must be on, you know. I shouldn’t 
have half the fun out of it I hope for if I couldn’t tell 
you about it.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“I don’t know yet. Confound that button!” 

He drew back from the instrument, scratched his 
head, and looked around the room. 

“I have it !” he said, and went to Ordway’s table, 
where he rolled a sheet of paper into a slender wand. 
One end of this he stirred in a pot of mucilage and re- 
turned with it to the pianoforte. 

“Say,” he went on, as he fished for the button, “who 
is Jane talking about when she speaks of some fellow 
who hasn’t the good sense to snap up Barbara?” 

For once, Ordway lied glibly and promptly. 

“I don’t know,” he said. 


224 


The Song* and the Singer. 


“ I wonder,” murmured Billy, dabbing at the button, 
“if it is George Wheelock? He hasn’t settled down 
yet, has he ?” 

“I think not.” 

If any less important operation had been engaging 
the major part of Billy’s attention, he might have re- 
membered the childhood intimacy between Herbert 
Ordway and Barbara Kendall, and have traced a con- 
nection between it and Jane’s Sibylline utterance; but 
just then the lost button adhered to the gummed end 
of his paper wand, and he drew it forth with a satisfied 
“A-a-h !” He retired with it to his bedroom, and gave 
his mind mainly to planning how he might give Jane 
Twitchell a “hot” time.” 


II. 

No solemn, sanctimonious face I pull, 

Nor think I’m pious when I’m only bilious. 

—Hood. 

It was impracticable for Billy to meet the women 
on their arrival, and Ordway therefore went to the 
station alone. Much to his chagrin, he could not over- 
come a sense of dread as the hour of three approached. 
It was the last thing he wanted them to suspect, and 
accordingly he set his will to work so to draw his face 
and frame his remarks that they should feel that they 
had been welcomed. His difficulties in this regard van- 
ished speedily after the train came in. 

Standing at the gate through which the incoming pas- 
sengers filed, and looking down the long platform, he 
saw a red-capped man with a valise in each hand. Be- 
hind him marched Jane, her lips pressed hard together, 
her eyes flashing. Barbara walked demurely beside 
her. Jane saw Ordway while yet she was a great way 
off, and waved her parasol at him, lowering it abruptly 
and turning her head with a jerk toward Barbara, who 
apparently had protested against such an outlandish 
greeting; but Ordway waved his hat joyously in re- 

225 


226 The Song and the Singer. 

sponse, and presently he was shaking hands with the 
pilgrims. 

“Scared to death !” gasped Jane ; “both of us scared 
silly ! Here ! stop that man with the red cap ! He’s 
got my best dress and my toothbrush !” 

She belied her declaration of timidity by darting after 
the porter and hooking him on the arm with the crook 
handle of her parasol. 

“Whoa!” said she. “You kindly wait a jiffy. When 
I say geddap it will be time to go ahead.” 

The porter halted and grinned sheepishly. All who 
were passing smiled. Ordway looked at Barbara, and 
they both laughed. Whatever tension there might have 
been between them was broken. 

“I suppose,” suggested Ordway, “that you will want 
to be piloted to a good boarding-house ?” 

Jane sniffed contemptuously. 

“No, sir!” she retorted. “We’re going to a hotel, 
and we’re going in a hack if we have to walk home. 
Shall I give that man our trunk checks? Is he honest? 
You can pick out our hotel for us from this list. The 
dominie gave it to me. I think he tried to put us off 
with old ladies’ homes, but you’ll know. We want to 
be where there’s something going on — people going up 
and down the front steps, wagons forever passing, and 
I wouldn’t mind if there was a fire engine house across 
the road. Land !” and she threw up her hands in a 
gesture of resignation ; “I’ve been running the train for 
five mortal hours, and I’m about ready to give up and 


The Song and the Singer. 227 

let a man take hold. Go ahead, Bert. We’ll do what 
you say and be as meek as kittens in a dark basket.” 

Ordway looked over the list she gave him, and pres- 
ently had the women in a cab. 

“Say !” said Jane, as he got in with them, “will we go 
anywhere near the Bowery ?” 

“Not this time,” he answered, laughing with unaf- 
fected mirth ; “but I’ll take you there before you leave 
the city.” 

“You?” cried Jane. “You never go to the Bowery, 
do you?” 

“Often, to get music paper. One of the largest music 
houses in town is just at the head of the Bowery.” 

“La, me!” said Jane. “How disappointing!” 

“I actually think,” said Barbara, “that Jane will be 
sorry if we are not attacked by footpads, or burnt up 
in the hotel, or if something dreadful doesn’t happen.” 

“New York must be what it’s cracked up to be or 
I’ll disown it,” Jane declared. 

As they rolled along, Ordway answered their ques- 
tions — or rather Jane’s, for Barbara looked and listened 
for the most part. Jane inquired for Billy, asked 
“What’s that?” at every street crossing, and nearly 
broke her neck with her first glimpse at the Waldorf- 
Astoria when they passed that lofty building. 

“Jane !” said Barbara, at this point ; “what will people 
think?” 

“They’ll think we’re country,” Jane retorted, “and I 
don’t care. My stars ! I wonder how it would feel to 


228 


The Song and the Singer. 


be on the top floor of that hotel and know that there 
was a fire in the cellar ?” 

And so it went until Ordway had deposited them in 
a hotel, when he left them to their own devices until 
near evening. Then he returned with Billy to take 
them to a French restaurant for dinner. Jane attached 
herself to Billy in a matter-of-course way, and Ordway 
walked with Barbara. 

The conversations of the pairs run as might be ex- 
pected. Barbara, awhirl with the infinitely long journey, 
and bewildered by a multitude of first impressions, re- 
marks upon the noise, confusion, and the endless pro- 
cessions on the sidewalks ; but that is nothing, Ordway 
tells her; she must wait and see the streets when they 
are really lively. And these fearfully high buildings, 
she gasps, hardly daring to look up, for, unlike her 
traveling companion, she shrinks from attracting atten- 
tion — how do human beings dare to live and toil so far 
from the ground ? Ah, these are pigmy, he assures her, 
with the large condescension that fits the three-year-old 
resident of the city so nicely, and that must be so im- 
pressive to the country cousin ; wait till she sees lower 
Broadway. Why ! the buildings are so high down town 
that the streets look like slits cut with a knife in a great 
cheese. She cannot take it all in yet ; it seems confus- 
ing — wonderful, of course, but almost terrible. Think 
of all these persons passing, and passing, and jostling, 
and not one of them greeting another with a pleasant 
“good evening.” There is something inhuman about it. 


The Song and the Singer. 229 

His smile is calm and reserved, such as one bestows 
upon a child who inquires about the Almighty’s domestic 
arrangements ; it takes years to realize that in the city 
the individual is submerged, years to comprehend the 
place, and even then one is always discovering some- 
thing new. She wonders how even the old residents 
remember to turn at the right corners, they all look so 
much alike, and, with infinite pains to make his action 
perfectlv patent, he turns into a side street while looking 
elsewhere and discoursing on matters at a distance. 

Jane grips Billy’s arm eagerly, and wants to know, 
sotto voce, if he has considered the private request in 
her letter? She meant it, every word. He has given it 
prayerful consideration, and, with seductive hesitation, 
wonders whether he ought to gratify her? She might 
regret it. She guesses tartly that she can take care of 
her own sensibilities ; she hadn’t appealed to him for 
moral or spiritual guidance ; when she is in need of that 
sort of thing she knows where to apply for it, and it 
won’t be of a New York newspaper man; huh! and she 
gives his arm an impatient shake. Well, but a man, es- 
pecially a newspaper man who has to see so much that is 
deplorable, knows in advance what the scenes are — 
which, with another shake, is exactly why she besought 
his assistance. Does he take her for a weak-mnded sen- 
timentalist? for a Miss Prim? No, far from that, but 
seriously, he cannot forget that she is a woman, and a 
woman’s eyes — whereupon she stops short and shakes 
him, to the astonishment of chance observers and his 


23° 


The Song and the Singer. 


overwhelming joy, and demands if he is going back on 
her! Billy! is he? No, with monumental reluctance, 
not if she’s so confounded headstrong and obstinate, but 
if she is sadly shocked, the consequences must be on 
herself ; he washes his hands of any responsibility. Then 
it’s settled, and she is in vast good humor ; she guesses 
she’s old enough to assume her own responsibilities, and 
a moment later they are in Guttin’s with that genial res- 
taurateur beside their table, to be sure that M’sieur 
Zhamson and his friends are well served. 

To the women, eager for novelty and fresh impres- 
sions, that modest dinner and the long walk up brilliant 
Broadway afterward was a dream of delight. To Billy, 
who had to cut part of the walk to cover an assignment, 
it was rich in the fun he extracted from Jane at the 
moment, and richer in his rising anticipations. To Ord- 
way, it proved the most grateful relief. His over-sensi- 
tive and over-wrought temperament found repose in the 
suggestion of broad fields and deep forests that came 
with Barbara to the city. Time and again in his verses 
he had called for peace ! peace ! and, all unaware of it, 
during the brief evening, it came to him. Later, when 
he had said good-night, and was walking homeward, he 
began to realize that he had had a good time, and he 
was quite inclined to castigate himself for retaining ca- 
pacity for anything but sorrow. 

We must not get out of patience with Ordway ; he was 
very young, and he was sore afflicted with what his chum 
called Ordwayism, which, interpreted, means that he was 


The Song and the Singer. 


231 


a supreme egotist. He was not altogether singular in 
this world of commonplace persons; there are many 
like him, and some of them are worth saving, much as 
we may impatiently wish that they were gifted with a 
little less imagination, or a little more leavened by sense 
of perspective. 

On the following day, Ordway took the women on an 
extended excursion, cutting some lessons in order to be 
their guide. The trip comprehended many of the sights 
that Jane was hungering for, the homes of the million- 
aires, the Bridge, Central Park, and so forth, and at the 
end of it, she confessed herself clean beat out. She 
didn’t want to see another blessed thing; she wouldn’t 
even go to a window if a fire engine passed; Barbara 
and Herbert had better go to a theatre, or a concert, 
whereupon Barbara rather hastily announced that she 
also was tired, and it was agreed that the theatre must 
wait. It was understood, further, that shopping should 
be the next matter to demand attention, and that the 
women were confident they could manage by them- 
selves. So, then, a day passed during which Ordway 
did not meet them, and it was in this interval that he 
realized that their visit was somewhat fortunate ; with its 
interruptions to his regular work, it was serving to keep 
him from calling on Guarda. He had no definite en- 
gagement with the singer, but he had been running in 
with such frequency that he knew she would notice his 
absence. He wondered if she would hear of the affair 
at Kinkel’s and apprehend his attitude ? 


232 The Song and the Singer. 

During the stay of the pilgrims, both Billy and Ord- 
way looked in on them frequently, advising, planning, 
escorting when they could do so, and enjoying Jane’s 
comments and Barbara’s quieter appreciation. The four 
contrived to go to a theatre together, and Ordway 
planned a similar evening at a concert where Guarda 
was to sing. Barbara was all enthusiasm over this, but 
Jane glanced significantly at Billy. 

“I’ve heard Guarda,” she said. “She can sing better 
than anybody in East Wilton, but I didn’t come to New 
York to hear what I can hear in Boxford.” 

“But I would come all the way to New York to hear 
Guarda again,” cried Barbara. “Isn’t she one of the 
very great singers, Herbert?” 

“I think she is,” he answered, “but I don’t want to 
influence your programme.” 

“You couldn’t suggest anything better for me. Now, 
Jane, dear ” 

“Don’t ‘Jane-dear’ me !” interrupted the old maid, who 
was proud of it ; “run along to your concert, if you want 
to. Billy and I ” 

“That’s it!” put in Billy, taking his cue, suddenly; 
“Jane and I will take in something more to our taste.” 

“Billy and I are going to frivol,” said Jane, placidly, 
smoothing out her skirt and folding her hands. 

Barbara’s eyes opened wide. This, evidently, was the 
first intimation she had had of Jane’s devious desires. 
She looked from the spinster, who was affectedly serene, 


The Song and the Singer. 233 

to the reporter, whose eyes were twinkling, and then to 
Ordway, who avoided her glance. 

“Herbert,” said she, “what are they up to, these 
two ?” 

“I like that !” exclaimed Billy, ruffling. “These two ! 
What do you think of that, Jane?” 

“It doesn’t disturb me,” was the reply. “I’ve long 
thought you and I were made for each other.” 

“They’re going to elope!” cried Ordway, who knew 
all about it. 

“Oh! this is so sudden!” gasped Jane, and then all 
four burst out laughing. 

“I don’t care,” said Barbara; “you two are up to 
some fun that you haven’t told us about. I want to 
be in it.” 

“Horror!” cried Billy. 

“Child,” said Jane, severely, “you are going to be 
good and hear Guarda, and that settles it.” 

So it did, though there was a lot of good-humored 
disputation about it which came near to making Ordway 
uncomfortable, for he could not but suspect that Bar- 
bara was resisting the proposition that she go to a 
concert with him alone. When, however, by prear- 
rangement with Billy, he invited Barbara to go with him 
upon a round of the Fifth avenue picture galleries, she 
consented eagerly, and they set off without delay. It 
was then afternoon, and this device was to enable Billy 
and Jane to plan their evening’s excursion. The re- 
porter had obtained the whole day and evening “off” 


2 34 


The Song and the Singer. 


on the plea to his city editor that he had a scheme 
for a lively Sunday story that might be developed ; he 
wasn’t sure, but he would like to try it ; and as Billy 
had been behaving himself unexceptionably for several 
days, the tyrant of the city room had consented. 

Ordway thought he never had seen Barbara so gay 
as she was upon that afternoon. He attributed her de- 
meanor to the infection of Jane’s lively humor. The 
fresh color of the country was high on her cheeks, there 
was animation in her eyes, and mirth upon her tongue ; 
that depression which the city so often imposes at first 
on gentle natures haa worn away with a few days’ famil- 
iarity, and now she saw humor and humanity in the 
spectacle. She grasped its details and set them in some 
sort of relation to the whole in a way that was im- 
possible for a day or two after her arrival. She turned 
her head to avoid laughing in the very faces of the 
liveried flunkies at carriage doors, she exclaimed over 
art objects displayed in windows before which she 
paused, and she stood breathless with rapture before 
the paintings in the galleries they visited. 

Once she turned from long contemplation of an In- 
ness landscape to Ordway, who stood patiently, and, for 
that matter, contentedly, by, for he, too, had soul for 
that manner of art, and she said : “Oh ! I am having 
such a good time !” in a low tone that fluttered with the 
intensity of her happiness ; and the quick deepening of 
the color on her cheeks t.old no other story to her escort 


The Song and the Singer. 235 

than that she was appreciative of the city’s treasure 
of wonders. 

They had dropped into several art stores, pursuing 
no definite plan, but following the fancy of the moment, 
guided by the window display, or the odd promise that 
some unpronounceable foreign name over the door 
might give, which everybody knows is the most delight- 
ful and satisfactory way to conduct a quest for pleas- 
ure, and they had come, toward the end of the after- 
noon, to an establishment that differed from the others 
only in the details of its display. In a room at the back, 
screened by draperies so that the sun could not reach it, 
and ingeniously lighted to the end that it might, even at 
noon, have all the atmosphere of an evening view, was a 
painting before which stood a group of spectators. It 
attracted Barbara’s attention at once, but she waited 
until the spectators had withdrawn, and then went be- 
fore it, leaving Ordway intent upon the study of a 
Corot. 

“Herbert!” she called, and as he drew quickly near, 
“See! it’s Guarda!” 

She could not fail to observe the flush that leaped to 
his too responsive brow, or the trouble that clouded 
his eyes ; and she turned again to the portrait, her own 
eyes deep with admiration and wistfulness. 

“I had forgotten,” he said, with halting assumption 
of composure that he did not feel, “that it was here — 
that is, I knew of the portrait, but did not know where 
it was exhibited.” 


236 


The Song and the Singer. 


“You have seen it before, then?” 

“Not since it was finished.” 

He thought how easy and natural it should be to say 
that he had accompanied Guarda to the studio where 
she had sat for the artist, but he could not command 
his tongue to say more. 

“She is very beautiful,” said Barbara. 

The portrait showed the singer in concert costume, 
and it had been her own fancy to have it painted in such 
a way that artificial light should make it most effective. 
Ordway knew that the painter had asked the privilege of 
displaying the work in a public gallery for a time, and 
that Guarda had consented with as much graciousness 
as if there were no incidental advertisement for herself 
to be derived from the exhibition ; but he had not known 
that the portrait was to be set up in this particular place. 
If he had known, he would have guided Barbara away 
from it. And yet, why should she not look upon the 
picture of a beautiful woman, whom she was to hear in 
the evening? A guilty conscience alone could answer 
the question, and that was in Ordway’s possession. 

There are human beings, even in this materialistic 
day, to whom temptation is guilt in itself. 

Barbara could not, or at all events did not, take her 
eyes from the portrait for some minutes. She looked at 
it very gravely, and if she saw somewhat beyond the 
canvas, there was no way for Ordway to know it, for she 
spoke not. Ordway gazed at it, too. This lifeless pres- 
entation could not smile him out of countenance. He 


The Song and the Singer. 237 

could feast his eyes upon this as he could not upon the 
reality. It was only when she was upon the concert 
platform and he indistinguished in the audience that he 
could concentrate his gaze upon her, and then his view 
was shared by a thousand ; here he was alone ; he had 
her to himself save for Barbara, and the country girl 
almost faded from his consciousness. So absorbed were 
they both that neither noticed the rustling of skirts and 
light steps that came to halt just behind them. At last, 
“She is very beautiful,” repeated Barbara, with a note 
of sadness that she tried to suppress and that he failed 
to observe, and she turned to go. Then she gave a little 
gasp of surprise, and, her back to the portrait, looked 
into the laughing eyes of the living Guarda. 

“So Mr. Ordway,” said the singer, holding out her 
hand with that unaffected cordiality of which she was 
past mistress, “though you desert me you still pay hom- 
age to my shrine. That is reparation to some extent, I 
confess ; but how you can be content with a counterfeit 
presentment when the original is at command might 
be cause for resentment. You must pardon this uncon- 
ventional behavior,” she added, quickly. “I came in to 
see if the portrait had been placed to suit me, and seeing 
you both so intent in criticising it I could not resist the 
temptation to hear your comments.” 

Ordway presented Barbara, adding, “We are booked 
to hear you this evening.” 

“Good !” said Guarda, “I shall have to be on my met- 
tle to pay for the very sweet thing you said about my 


238 


The Song and the Singer. 


picture,” and she beamed upon Barbara quite as de- 
lightfully as if the country girl had been a man. 

“We were not criticising,” said Barbara; “at least, I 
was not. That is beyond me.” 

“But Mr. Ordway was, I am sure. He’s a terrible fel- 
low, Miss Kendall ! Never speaks anything but the 
truth, and the whole truth; and now tell me, both of 
you,” and she went on with a number of finical ques- 
tions about the lighting and draping of the picture. 

In the course of the conversation it came out natur^ 
ally that Barbara was a stranger in town, and Guarda 
not only prettily rebuked Ordway for not calling with 
her, but pressed an invitation upon them to breakfast 
with her on the following morning. Ordway looked in- 
quiringly at Barbara. 

“I should like to ver> much,” she responded, falter- 
ing a little, “if there is time. We start for home at 
noon.” 

“We?” said Guarda, elevating her brows. 

“My cousin and I,” Barbara explained. “I ran away 
from her to see the galleries, but we are visiting the 
city together.” 

“You must bring your cousin, too, of course!” cried 
Guarda. “Your train goes at noon? Well, then, we’ll 
breakfast at ten, and you shall go from me to the train. 
Is it agreed?” 

The engagement was made, and after some further 
light talk Guarda returned to her carraige. 

“Shall we go on?” asked Ordway; “there is ” 


The Song and the Singer. 239 

And he named another store famous for its constant 
display of fine paintings. 

“No, thank you, Herbert,” Barbara responded; “I 
have seen so much that I am quite tired.” 

And all the way back to the hotel she was singularly 
silent and pensive. Ordway did not notice it. He was 
in the same mood. 


HI. 

In every deed of mischief he had a heart to resolve, 
a head to contrive, and a hand to execute. 

— Gibbon. 

The four dined together again that evening, and Ord- 
way and Barbara went directly from the restaurant to 
the concert. Billy escorted Jane to her hotel, left her 
there and hastened to his rooms, returning shortly with 
a bundle that he would not consign to the care of a bell- 
boy on the way to her parlor. She was waiting for him 
on the qui vive with excitement. 

“Courage still firm, Jane?” he asked, when he went in 
and the door was closed. 

“Have you got ’em there ?” she returned, pointing to 
the bundle. 

He handed it to her. 

“You’ll find the shoes too big for you,” said he. 
“That’s necessary, as I suppose you can see. Better 
cram some newspaper into the toes to make ’em keep 
from flopping.” 

“Hm — hm!” she responded between pressed lips. 
Could it be that her courage was oozing? 

“Of course,” Billy added, deprecatingly, “it isn’t too 
late to back out. You know what I’ve said ” 

240 


The Song and the Singer. 


241 


Her eyes snapped as she turned upon him. She had 
started to her chamber. 

“Who’s said anything about backing out?” she de- 
manded. 

“Well, I did.” 

“Then don’t say it again. Sit down and read the 
Tost,’ It won’t take me forever, I guess.” 

“Do your hair up in a tight bunch on top of your head, 
Jane,” he said, warningly, and then ducked behind the 
newspaper. It was his penalty for this escapade that he 
had to keep his face straight, and never had he been so 
sorely tried. 

Jane slammed the door behind her and was gone an 
unconscionably long time, or so it seemed to Billy, who 
was in perspiring apprehension lest she weaken at the 
last moment. Maybe she did have qualms and tortures 
of hesitation, but hers was the stern stock that two cen- 
turies ago compelled bleak New England to glow with 
wheat and corn, and this descendant was not one to look 
back after putting hand to the plow. So, eventually 
the door reopens, and 

Oh ! Jane, Jane ! If this should ever get to East Wil- 
ton! For there you are, the strangest figure of a man, 
from high-crowned derby hat to shoes that will flop in 
spite of paper wadded into the yawning toes. Truly, 
you are a sight, Jane Twitchell ; that long, loose over- 
coat becomes you ill, if it does conceal the greater part 
of you ; you shouldn’t clasp your hands in front, for a 
man’s hips are no place for his elbows ; your neck is not 


242 The Song and the Singer. 

the least bit manly, for all there is a hard, high collar 
around it; and that tie never was put on by a man; 
neither is there manly determination upon your firmly 
pressed lips, nor masculine wrath in the flashing of your 
eyes as you see Billy doubling up helplessly and turning 
away his head that he may the sooner control his shame- 
less mirth. 

“It ain’t fair, Billy Jameson !” cried Jane, stepping one 
pace toward him, and then halting in conscious em- 
barrassment. 

“That’s right, Jane — that’s right,” he said, sobering 
hastily, but not because his conscience smote him. He 
was afraid, that was all — afraid that ridicule might keep 
her faltering steps from straying beyond this room. “If 
I were in your garb,” he added, “it would be just as sur- 
prising, you know. To a stranger, and that’s all that 
counts, I think you would carry it off quite well. But 
let’s see you walk.” 

She minced across the room, and Billy rubbed his lips 
furiously while her back was turned. 

“Can’t you make your stride a little longer?” he sug- 
gested, “and step more firmly ” 

“How can I step firmly with these mudscows on?” 
she asked, sharply; but she tried, nevertheless, and 
again crossed the room, fully doubling her ordinarv 
stride. 

“That’s a good deal better,” said Billy, gravely, “and 
it will do very well if you’ll only drop your hands to 
your side, this way, see ?” and he set her an example. 


The Song and the Singer. 


243 


“I’m afraid I shall be forever clutching at the skirts 
of this coat,” said she, imitating patiently. 

“Lord! That won’t do! We must have something 
to occupy your hands with if that’s the danger. Take 
an umbrella in one hand, and here” — there was a neatly 
wrapped parcel on the table — “this in the other.” 

“Oh, dear!” gasped Jane, “that’s a present for Mrs. 
Kendall.” 

“Never mind. No harm will come to it. People will 
think it’s a box of cigars.” 

Jane made the circuit of the room several times with 
the umbrella and parcel, and Billy nodded approvingly. 

“It’s a good deal better than you think,” said he. 

“I hope so,” she responded, earnestly. “Say, Billy, 
does a man get so he can walk without consciousness 
of his — his extremities?” 

The reporter pursed his lips and rubbed his chin. 
“Well,” he answered, thoughtfully, “I don’t realize that 
I have a head unless it aches ” 

“I wasn’t referring to that extremity,” she snapped, 
“and you knew it, impudence !” 

“I beg your pardon— — ” 

“You needn’t. Whatever happens to-night it’s my 
fault. I’ve said so, and I stick to it. Let’s make a start 
if you think I’ll do. The start will be the worst part of 
it, I guess. Won’t the hotel people suspect?” 

“We’ll avoid them by going down the stairs.” 

They did so, and fortune favored them, for they met 
only one person, a bellboy, who was going up three 


244 The Song and the Singer. 

steps at a time, and he was so busy about it that he did 
not look at them. 

Jane was vastly encouraged. “I do believe I shall 
hit it off all right/’ she whispered, and mechanically she 
transferred the parcel to the hand that also held the 
umbrella, and grasped Billy by the arm. Then she 
thought, and back went the parcel to its proper hand. 
Thus in manly independence she came to the side en- 
trance and a moment later was drawing a breath of 
relief in the friendly shelter of a hansom that Billy had 
waiting for them. 

They steered, of course, straight for the Bowery. 
Jane had seen this thoroughfare from the windows of 
an elevated train by daylight, and its tameness had come 
nigh to driving her back to East Wilton instanter ; but 
she was sure that in the lurid glow of artificial light it 
would justify its repute. It proved so because luck 
was still with them. They saw a policeman interfere 
in a drunken brawl near Houston street and march a 
staggering prisoner away. Billy exulted. In all his pro- 
fessional wanderings in quest of news from the Bowery 
he never had seen so much of a fracas there. Under his 
orders the hansom went slowly till the little scene was 
ended by the dispersing of the crowd. Jane was all eyes. 

“That prisoner,” said Billy, “is one of the most notori- 
ous cutthroats in the city.” 

“Thank goodness they got him before we went any 
further !” exclaimed Jane. 

“There are others, though.” 


The Song and the Singer. 245 

“You needn’t try to scare me, Billy Jameson. I’m 
in for it, and I wouldn’t run if a whole army of thugs 
upset the cab.” 

He took her first to the Atlantic Garden, where they 
found a place in the gallery next the rail and looked 
down upon hundreds of contented Germans with their 
wives, and in some instances their children, drinking 
beer with remarkable moderation and listening to the 
women’s orchestra. Jane was fascinated until her ques- 
tions brought out the fact, that Billy could not success- 
fully disguise, that the place was not a hotbed of wicked- 
ness. 

“Pshaw !” said she ; “this has its interest, of course, as 
a phase of life that hasn’t been imported into East Wil- 
ton, but we might have brought Barbara here. Can’t 
you show me anything better?” 

“Worse, you mean.” 

“Yes, I do. What have I got these ridiculous things 
on for if I’m to sit like a prim old maid in such and see 
honest Dutch fraus hobnobbing with their husbands?” 

“Mebbe,” said he, reflectively, “mebbe some of them 
haven’t got their husbands with them. That’s worth 
thinking of when you’re hunting for scandal.” 

“No sarcasm, Billy, or back I go this minute.” 

He took her to a cheap “museum” near by, with some 
trepidation on his part lest her palpable disguise at- 
tract attention ; but by keeping close beside her and 
dropping her into a chair at every possible opportunity 


246 


The Song and the Singer. 


this danger was avoided and they escaped without ad- 
venture. Jane was again disappointed. She had not 
been shocked. Of boisterous revelry, the giddy whirl 
of riotous living, she had seen nothing. 

“I’m just giving you progressive glimpses of the city’s 
lower life,” he protested. “We’ll go now to a place 
where it really won’t do to inquire about your neigh- 
bors.” 

The cab was still in commission, and they went up- 
town. On that night the Academy of Music was de- 
voted to a ball, the very mention of which would have 
brought a blush to the cheeks of those who knew, if it 
were not for the melancholy fact that such persons had 
lost the gift of blushing. Billy looked to this event for 
a climax, the excursion into the depths of the Bowery 
being but preliminary and time-killing, for the ball was 
not scheduled to begin until a late hour. If it had been 
the annual firemen’s ball in East Wilton, and the place 
the town hall, the festivities would have been in an ad- 
vanced stage when Jane and her escort arrived. As it 
was, the ancient temple of musical high art presented a 
lively spectacle to her unaccustomed eyes. There was 
a throng of carriages at the curb, a throng of men and 
women pouring in at the doors. Billy had the fore- 
thought to order his cabman to wait where he could be 
approached readily, and, with an unnecessary caution to 
Jane to step firmly, led her into the gay current. Glanc- 
ing slyly, he saw her lips pressed hard together and her 
eyes flashing. She caught the glance. 


The Song and the Singer. 


247 


“This is it, Billy,” she said, in an aspirate tone of deep 
satisfaction ; “it’s all right. I’m sure this is it.” 

Somewhat to her discomfiture, she was obliged to sur- 
render her umbrella and parcel at the cloak room ; but 
her apprehension was relieved when Billy told her that 
all men were required to wear masks until midnight. 
He gave her one of two flimsy articles that he bought on 
the spot, and she promptly put it on, concealing her eyes 
and a part of her nose. Thus, like a hunted ostrich that 
conceals its head under a leaf, she proceeded with a 
cheerful sense of security. The understrappers at the 
door were for making her check her precious overcoat 
and necessary hat also, but Billy whispered briefly to 
the ticket-taker, who gave Jane an indifferent glance 
and allowed her to pass. The presence of women in 
one or another form of masculine disguise was not with- 
out precedent at this function. 

Billy’s plan for this part of the escapade was elabo- 
rate. It included first a general tour of the main floor, 
then a view of the grand march and subsequent revelry 
from a box, and later a visit to the supper-rooms, with 
such adventures as might befall there in the natural 
course of events. Alas, for the frailty of human plans ! 
They had not traversed more than half the main floor 
when they came upon a group of men who were elbow- 
ing each other and craning their necks in such evident 
manifestation of belief that they were having a good 
time that Jane instinctively paused to see what it might 
be that interested them. Billy knew, and he quaked a 


248 The Song and the Singer. 

bit ; but he remembered Jane’s desire, and did not hold 
her back. It was not easy to get a comprehensive view 
of the entertainment there in progress. The men stood 
thick, and were not at all disposed to make generous 
room for newcomers; but after a moment Jane saw an 
inverted silk hat suddenly raised above the heads in 
front of her, and following it the toe of a small, shapely 
foot. It was but a flash, and she comprehended but 
dimly the gratified “Ahs !” and handclapping that fol- 
lowed. Then, through some unforeseen, unpremeditated 
movement of the group, a lane appeared in the mass, 
at the end of which was an elegantly appareled woman 
of high color and sparkling eyes. She had both hands 
on her skirts, and she was lookingly intently at the in- 
verted silk hat that a man held before her at the level 
of his own face. Whisk ! up went the foot again ; there 
was a fleeting display of such hosiery as would have 
made the mere suggestion of a darning-needle seem a 
crime, a light thud, and away went the hat sailing over 
the heads of the crowd. 

A gasp from Jane and a frantic clutch at Billy’s arm. 
All the pent-up conservatism of generations of quiet 
lives in East Wilton, all the unconscious dignity of the 
woman’s nature, revolted. 

“Billy,” said she, “which way is the door? I’m all 
turned round.” 

“You don’t mean that you want to go?” he returned. 
“That’s only a professional dancer hired by the manage- 


The Song and the Singer. 249 

ment to make things lively while the crowd is gathering. 
The real fun hasn’t begun yet.” 

“I don’t call that dancing !” 

“Well, I don’t think it’s called dancing in the New 
York vocabulary, either, but ” 

“Which way is the door ?” 

“This way,” and he led her back across the floor. He 
was disappointed, amused, and, to tell the whole truth, 
relieved. It did occur to him that this harum-scarum 
escapade might well terminate without a view of the 
orgies in the supper-rooms. He tried to persuade him- 
self that his words of mock warning had been intended 
seriously. Jane bolstered up the effort. 

“I’m an old fool!” she snapped. “You’re all right, 
Billy. I stand by what I said. You warned me; but 
there’s no fool like an old fool. Only get me out of this 
now as soon as you can.” 

They rescued their belongings that had been stored 
in the cloak room, made a present of their masks to the 
man from whom they had been bought, and started side 
by side to stem the incoming tide of patrons. At the 
moment it was a noisy crowd that surged into 
the building. A party of young men and women 
who had taken time by the forelock and primed 
for the occasion at dinner was making a rush for the 
main door, somewhat upon the plan of a football 
“wedge.” They found it easy to push by some of those 
who were going in the same direction, but the pair of 


250 


The Song and the Singer. 


outgoers impeded them momentarily and caused an 
ebullition of excitement. 

“Say !” bawled a young fellow with a flushed face, who 
was pushing a girl along at the point of the wedge, 
“fun’s not begun yet. Whatcha goin’ away for?” and, 
the better to emphasize his reproof, he reached forth 
and knocked off Jane’s hat. The attention of all around 
was directed to her, and all saw the tight coil of hair on 
the top of her head. There was a chorus of derisive 
laughter, for in that crowd perception was quick to 
grasp the situation. Early departure and the scandal- 
ized, as well as terrified, expression on Jane’s face told 
the story. With mischievous instinct the wedge turned 
toward her. A brief moment of hustling followed, good 
natured, perhaps, but the humor of it was not relished 
by Jane, neither by Billy. His own lips were tightly 
pressed as he drove his fist smash into the red face of 
him who had knocked off her hat. The violent manoeu- 
vre made a slight gap in the crush, into and through 
which Billy forced Jane, half-carrying her down the 
steps and along the walk to the waiting cab. 

“Jove!” he exclaimed, as he helped her in, “that 
wasn’t on the programme ! Get a move on, cabby, be- 
fore the police wake up.” 

The driver had seen enough to understand the ad- 
visability of haste, and the cab speedily rolled away from 
the neighborhood. Billy looked apprehensively at Jane. 
The flash of a street lamp revealed her sitting rigid, star- 
ing straight ahead. 


The Song and the Singer. 


251 


“You’re not hurt, I hope,” said he. 

“No,” she answered, “not bodily. I shall wish I had 
that hat when we get to the hotel.” 

That was all she said on the way back, and Billy made 
acquaintance with grief. His climax had proved a disas- 
ter, wiping out all the fun, past and prospective, of the 
adventure. They gained her parlor by the way they had 
gone from it, and with as little difficulty. “Come back 
for these things,” said she ; “I want to see the last of 
them.” 

He went down and dismissed his cabman. After 
idling for some minutes he returned to the parlor. Jane 
was herself again, in apparel, but not quite in manner. 

“You needn’t disturb yourself, Billy,” she said. “You 
warned me, and I took the reins. I won’t go back on 
what I said. Take these things away now. I’m going 
to bed. If Barbara should come in and think me awake 
I should have to tell her; I just couldn’t help it. By 
morning I shall be able to hold my tongue. See that 
you hold yours.” 


IV. 


But optics sharp it needs, I ween. 

To see what is not to be seen. 

— John Trumbull. 

“Sh !” said Barbara, softly, returning from a peep into 
Jane’s chamber ; “she is asleep.” 

“Good night, then,” returned Ordway; “I’ll call at 
half-past nine to-morrow.” 

He was glad that it was so. The concert had put his 
nerves on the rack. He felt that there was something 
absurd and unreasonable in his sensitiveness ; but there 
had been small content in sitting beside one whom he 
had loved, and hearing her sing whom now he did love. 
If Jane and Billy had been along it might have been dif- 
ferent. He would not have suggested the concert if he 
had known that the matter would turn in this way. Ac- 
cording to his understanding of the plan, the escapade 
of Jane was to take place at a much later hour. And 
to-morrow he must be with them again, an ordeal he 
would willingly avoid, but he saw no way in good sense 
or courtesy to do so. 

Billy was abed, but not asleep, when he arrived at 
their rooms. Somewhat to his surprise, the reporter 

252 


The Song and the Singer. 253 

was not chuckling reminiscently over his adventures 
with Jane. Ordway asked two or three perfunctory 
questions about it ; but he was not deeply interested, 
and merely inferred from Billy’s indifferent answers that 
the affair had not been as hilariously successful as its 
author had anticipated. Nothing was said of the break- 
fast next morning, to which Billy had not been invited, 
and the reporter was asleep from force of habit when 
Ordway set forth to it. 

Jane would not think of breakfasting with Guarda, 
and Barbara demurred to going without her. 

‘Ten o’clock breakfast!” cried Jane, “I guess not! 
I may go back to East Wilton a perverted being, but 
not so bad as that. I’ve had my breakfast, and at a 
Christian hour, and I don’t want another — not to-day.” 

“But,” suggested Ordway, “it isn’t the breakfast, 
Jane. We’re not going there just to get something to 
eat.” 

Would you know why she did not jump at this oppor- 
tunity to spare himself what he had been pleased to re- 
gard as an ordeal ? How small we are, to be sure ! It 
offended him that anybody should be so unappreciative 
as not to be eager to meet Guarda. 

“Why should we go, then?” Jane demanded. 

“To see her.” 

“And be seen. Whatever she may think in her own 
heart, she isn’t going to let on that she’s on exhibition. 
She’ll look at us.” 

“Guarda is my friend, Jane.” 


V*' s . 

4 


2 54 


The Song and the Singer. 


"Well, she’s not mine. Allow that she invited you and 
Barbara because she wanted to see you. She’s not seen 
me, and she’d be sorry if she had. I sha’n’t go. I’ve 
% got all I can do this blessed morning seeing that the 
, trunks get to the depot and on the right train.” 

’ "Bother ! The hotel porter will look out for that.” 

"And Jane will look after the porter. Run along to 
your Guarda, you two. There’s no reason why you 
shouldn’t.” 

Ordway gave it up and turned to Barbara. The girl 
had been holding silent debate while she listened. 

"I don’t think it would be polite not to go,” she said. 
"Let’s not be late.” 

As an ordeal the breakfast was a shameful failure. It 
was a most agreeable hour, and Ordway held himself 
up to his own ridicule with merciless scorn. Guarda, 
past mistress of deportment in that she threw formality 
to the winds, devoted herself assiduously to Barbara, 
drawing from the girl those compliments that are so 
sweet because they are so ingenuously sincere, and 
deftly informing herself about the regrettable narrow- 
ness of home life and about its serene delights also. 
And Barbara bore herself with unaffected simplicity, 
without one trace of that rusticity that Ordway guiltily 
confessed to himself he had vaguely feared. She was 
to her manner born, which was good and natural, just 
as Guarda was, say, adapted to her manner, which was 
artificial. 

Neither of them saw the artificiality. Both were too 


The Song- and the Singer. 255 

blinded — one in one way and the other in another — to 
see beneath the surface. To them, that morning, she 
was all sympathy and graciousness ; a delightful hostess. 
Her husband was not present, and she made no men- 
tion of him, which was so much in the ordinary course 
that Ordway actually forgot that objectionable gentle- 
man’s existence. Barbara never had heard of him. 

“Before you go,” said Guarda, as train time drew 
near, “just one little matter of business. About your 
aria, Mr. Ordway ; would you be willing to have it done 
with a smaller orchestra than the score calls for?” 

“Certainly,” he answered, “if I make the arrange- 
ment.” 

“Will you do so? I know it is asking a great deal. 
It will take days of time to write a new score, will it 
not?” 

“No ; and even if so, I should like to do it. A com- 
poser must learn, you know, to achieve his results with 
small resources.” 

“You are quite right. With a smaller score I can 
use the piece much more frequently. I have now sev- 
eral engagements where I would like to sing it, but 
shall not be able to do so if full orchestra is required.” 

“I will attend to that. Let me take the score and 
parts along now, not only to refer to, but because I 
think some of the parts can be doctored so that they 
will do for either large or small band.” 

Guarda brought him the music, and with polite fare- 
wells they parted, Ordway accompanying Barbara to 


256 


The Song and the Singer. 


the station. On the way he told her the true story of 
his aria, as he understood it, and reminded her that she 
had been the first to hear the music. She listened in 
silence. 

“I was foolishly impatient about it at that time,” he 
concluded. “Since then I have come to see that a com- 
poser by himself cannot possibly set forth whatever 
merit his work may have. In this very instance I did 
not realize the effectiveness of the piece until I heard 
Guarda sing it at Boxford.” 

“It is beautiful music,” she responded, in a low tone. 
“I was very stupid not to grasp it when you played it. 
I have often thought about it since the Festival.” 

“But you didn’t recognize it there?” 

There was some hesitation before she replied: “No; 
but I think the singer must have dazzled me, for I re- 
membered more about it as music than about anything 
else she sang there. I am very glad for your sake that 
she sings it.” 

Jane was at the station ahead of them, tickets bought, 
trunks checked, and eager for departure. 

“It’ll be a long good-bye,” she said, waving her hand 
around comprehensively. 

“Why!” said Ordway, “one would think you hadn’t 
had a good time. Don’t you like New York?” 

“Like it!” she echoed, vehemently; “I’m dead in love 
with it ; but it seems as if I couldn’t get home too soon 
to break into the meeting-house and kneel down in my 



Good-bye !” 

See page 257. 


I do so hope she will make you happy, 




The Song and the Singer. 


257 


pew and pray the Lord to forgive me for ever coming 
here. Train’s ready. Let’s get aboard.” 

Ordway accompanied them to the train, found seats 
for them, and stood in the aisle chatting till they heard 
the conductor’s warning call. Then he raised his hat, 
shook hands hastily and started to go. Both had told 
him again and again how good he had been, how they 
appreciated the time he and Billy had devoted to them, 
and there was really nothing left to be said ; but Bar- 
bara arose and followed him to the car platform. 

“Herbert !” she said. 

He looked around, surprised to know that she was 
there, and disturbed to see the pathetic fullness of her 
eyes. 

“Herbert,” she repeated, taking his hand in both hers, 
in the old, old way, “we are friends still, aren’t we? 
It is that that has made me want to say something — 
just this,” and her tone fluttered, “I do so hope she 
will make you happy. Good-bye. Quick! The train 
is going!” 

It had started, and there was nothing for it but to 
jump off and watch it roll from the station. 


PRESTO CON BRIO. 

I. 


In part she is to blame that has been tried ; 

He comes too near who comes to be denied. 

— Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. 

In all human relationships there comes a period that 
should be marked by a note in one’s diary, or a date 
scrawled on the wall, or a deed that fixes the time be- 
cause it will not out from the memory ; for thereafter 
the relationships cannot be changed. We call this 
period the crisis, and often, when it is signalized by no 
untoward or strenuous event, we are not aware that 
it has passed. 

My new neighbor is an odd person. He rises at the 
most absurdly early hour and goes to pottering about 
his grounds, snipping the grass that grows a half-inch 
too high about a flower bed, plucking off the decaying 
leaves from a geranium that was transplanted last week 
from the conservatory, desisting from such occupation 
to stand, hands folded behind him, head thrown back, 
eyes intently searching the foliage of the oak whence 
come the liquid notes of the brown thrasher. I have 

258 


The Song and the Singer. 


259 


wondered a good deal about him since he came. We 
bow distantly, but neither makes overture to close 
acquaintance. I don’t think I should like him, with his 
bucolic tastes and evidently eccentric view of things 
generally. He gives me a half uncomfortable feeling, 
for his very placidity disturbs me. One morning I, my- 
self, have occasion to rise early, and I see him paddling 
about his lawn, ankle deep in sparkling dew, and I won- 
der contemptuously whether he will put on dry socks 
and shoes before breakfast. Presently he pauses, 
stoops, and picks up something that he examines curi- 
ously. I know what it is — my son’s baseball. There 
was tribulation on this side the hedge last sundown. 
The ball was thrown when, according to parental edict, 
it should have been put in the capacious pocket ; it was 
too dark to see where it went, and the grief of the small 
boy, and the cause thereof, were made known to all 
the neighborhood in a series of distressed howls that 
sentenced the youngster to early bed. My neighbor 
smiles reminiscently and crosses the lawn to the hedge 
that divides our reservations. There he carefully tosses 
the ball toward my house and watches till he sees it 
roll to a spot where my son cannot fail to find it when 
he goes for his bicycle at school time. That done, his 
hands clasp behind his back, and he splashes gently 
through the dew, cocking his ear for the duet of thrashef 
and robin. All unwittingly to both of us, the relations 
of myself and my new neighbor have passed a crisis. 
I care no more than previously to get acquainted with 


26 o The Song and the Singer. 

him, but I am perfectly content that he who has no 
children shall go on nursing his flowers and listening 
to the prattle of the birds. 

To those who observe without thinking, it often 
seems that Fate, or Providence, or the unassuming his- 
torian, contrive to bring human relationships to a crisis 
at the most inopportune and unexpected times. This 
is not the case. Given the human elements and the 
environment, and the matter works itself out in its own 
way, and if the making or breaking of destiny seems 
inopportune, that is because this human chemistry is 
as relentless as the grosser chemistry is certain. There 
must come a time when elements fuse or separate. 
Accident may hasten or delay the moment, but when it 
comes one and all are affected. So look to your 
watches, Billy Jameson and Herbert Ordway, for the 
crisis in your lives approaches. Look to your watch, 
Guarda; the hour will strike for you when it strikes 
for them. And yours, Signor Giuseppe Napoli, look 
to yours as you dodder about the lobby with your in- 
exhaustible cigarettes — the time is near for you, also. 

We who observe will look to our calendars at this 
period and note that it was on a Saturday that Barbara 
and Jane returned to East Wilton. Ordway plunged at 
once into work at his music paper, feverishly eager, as 
he thought, to make up for lost time. In reality the 
forces within him, which no man can control fully, were 
working for a momentous change, and he did not know 
it or suspect it. Billy, who had led a most exemplary 


The Song and the Singer. 


261 


life for a solid week, reappeared abruptly in his favorite 
barrooms. Better for him, perhaps, if he had drunk 
steadily during the visit of the women from the home 
town, and maybe not ; I cannot tell. I know only that 
the crash had to come, and what matter a few days 
sooner or later? His Saturday work was done brill- 
iantly — as an engineer might say, under full steam. 
He was on duty Sunday, also, and the distemper waxed 
upon him. By Monday it had become excess, and the 
next day the city editor noticed it. A rapid course ; 
but there had been days of substantial abstinence, an 
occasional glass of beer, a little cheap wine at dinner, 
merely staving off appetite and whetting the craving 
against the time when restraints were loosed. 

Meantime, Billy’s thoughts were on fire to an unusual 
degree. A certain situation that had been irksome was 
becoming intolerable. Stimulated fancy made it wholly 
so, and the worst of it was that in what Billy fondly 
believed were his sober moments he saw the situation 
in its most unendurable aspect. The torment was upon 
him when he awoke at noon. 

“Last night,” he told himself, “I thought I should 
bring the matter to a head, for I was full and yet I 
suffered; but, being full, I distrusted my judgment. 
Extraordinary how full a man can get when his mind 
is harassed and not get drunk! Sober, I suffer still, 
and, my judgment unobscured, 1 cannot see that this 
thing ought to continue. It can’t!” 

He got up and dressed slowly, very slowly. It was 


262 


The Song and the Singer. 


even then time to report for duty ; but a half-hour, or 
twice that, wouldn’t matter. What did he care? Let 
the city editor grumble. 

“1 believe I’m a human being,” his thoughts ran. “As 
such I have a right to happiness. That’s in the Declara- 
tion, and who am I that I should venture to dispute 
with Jefferson? The finical point is that another man 
stands in the way — but does he? No ; it’s Guarda. It’s 
up to her to say no. If she should say it, and I sup- 
pose it’s likely, I should at least know my ground. As 
it is, I am teetering on my own impulses without getting 
anywhere, when a jump would settle it all at once.” 

Teetering, the old-fashioned word — he hadn’t thought 
of it since some remote time in his childhood — brought 
back a rueful experience to memory. He was learning 
to swim, but not yet did he dare dive head first into 
the deep water just above the dam. Down beside the 
mill was a pile of lumber from which one board that 
had been carelessly stacked protruded two or three feet 
above an expanse of sawdust. It had nothing like the 
dizzy elasticity of the diving board at the pond, but it 
offered a tempting opportunity for practice. He 
climbed up to it and teetered hesitatingly for a moment 
while he thought it all out. The sawdust would not 
open and close over him, as the water would, and if it 
did, it wouldn’t be so cold. He could just scramble 
out again laughing and dust himself. Of course it was 
soft — there could be nothing softer than sawdust, un- 
less it was a haystack. Hadn’t he shoveled it, and run 


The Song and the Singer. 


263 


his hands in it many a time ? It was so soft, then, that 
it would be a jolly nice cushion for his head, and after 
a few tries he could run up to the pond and surprise 
the fellows with a grand dive from the long board. 

So Billy, the small boy, teetered — one, two, three ! 
The mill hand who had the luck to see said that it was 
as fine a headfirst dive as any grown man in East 
Wilton could make. He soused Billy’s head in the 
stream below the mill, and when the lad was brought 
to he was sent in a wagon to Dr. Hubbard, who soused 
his head in arnica and sent him home to bed. A few 
days later Billy made a secret visit to the spot and 
spent some time on his hands and knees, feeling of the 
sawdust. He came to the sage conclusion that saw- 
dust that has been exposed for months to the elements 
packs harder by about three times than paving stone. 

Billy, the grown man, smiled faintly at the reminis- 
cence. “I haven’t anything to practise on in this in- 
stance,” he reflected; “and I’m old enough to take a 
plunge without it.” 

The smile faded quickly, and he went to the corner 
nearest the flat for his bracer. It soothed him physi- 
cally, but there was no nervous buoyancy in it. He 
took another. “Of course, there’s Ordway,” he was 
thinking ; “he’s in it as deep as I am, but he’s different. 
If Guarda were free, I’d jump off the bridge rather than 
stand in his way. That means, of course, that I’d do 
nothing of the sort; but I would crack him up to 
Guarda. I’d do the self-abnegation act to the most 


264 


The Song and the Singer. 


heroic degree and be best man at his wedding without 
a quiver. As it is, he’ll never speak. And he can stand 
it. He’s got his music. He can let himself go in 
poetry. There are outlets for him ; for me, none but 
confession. I’ve nothing but this damned newspaper 
drudgery to distract me, and there’s nothing in it. Con- 
fession ! I wonder I hadn’t thought of it in that way 
before. I can tell Guarda just how I feel, and that it’s 
got to end one way or the other. That’s what Ordway 
would do if it wasn’t that he’s got the strength of char- 
acter to shut up. Confession ! Why not ?” 

He took another bracer, and continued on toward 
the office, where he arrived two hours late. By then 
his mind was made up, and he entered the building with 
brisk steps. In the elevator it occurred to him that he 
might be questioned as to his tardiness. If it was a 
dull day for news he might slip in unnoticed. If there 
had been something doing, it behooved him to think 
fast ; for now, more than ever — now that he was to take 
a step that should be decisive — it was important to re- 
tain his position. 

The reporters’ room was deserted by all save the city 
editor and his assistant. Something had been doing. 
Billy went to his desk and began to write furiously. 
The city editor looked at him through his spectacles 
and over them. He took up a memorandum or two 
from his desk and laid them down again. Then he 
looked thoughtfully out of the window. Presently, 


The Song and the Singer. 265 

“Mr. Jameson,” said the city editor, “what are you 
writing ?” 

“Caught a story on the way down,” replied Billy, 
without looking up ; “be through in a minute.” 

The minute expanded to nearly ten, but eventually 
the reporter marched up to his superior’s desk and laid 
down his copy. “It’s not exactly news,” he said, smil- 
ing, “but too good to let go, I thought.” 

The city editor glanced at the manuscript and saw 
that it was a description of a typical street scene done 
in Billy’s most humorous, fetching style. Such con- 
tributions were always welcome from him. On many 
an occasion matter-of-fact news had been sacrificed to 
make room for his squibs, for everybody read them. 
The city editor fumbled among some papers on a pigeon 
hook. Referring to our calendars, we will remember 
that this was Wednesday. A sheet of paper was de- 
tached from the hook and laid upon the desk. Billy 
recognized it as a part of his last night’s story. Its 
matter, or the substance of it, was in the paper — he had 
looked for it while dressing — and this sheet was 
smudged with printers’ finger-marks. 

“Is that your writing?” asked the city editor, as he 
filled his pipe absently. 

“Certainly,” said Billy. 

The words were badly scrawled, the lines uneven, and 
the individual letters all out of character. Billy ob- 
served, but held his peace, smiling nonchalantly. 

“The handwriting,” remarked the city editor, striking 


266 


The Song and the Singer. 


a match, “is not like that you have just brought in. My 
attention was called to this by the night desk as a danger 
signal.” 

Billy laughed. “Fm sorry for the night desk,” said 
he. “That copy was written on the elevated train to 
save the paper’s time. I shouldn’t be surprised if the 
train had been drinking. I noticed that it staggered at 
the curves. We might get up a stunning Sunday story 
about it — our dissipated rapid transit ; reckless disre- 
gard of propriety on the part of some of the oldest cars 
on the line ; terror at the night desk — don’t you 
know, eh?” 

The city editor crumpled up the suspected page of 
copy and dropped it in a waste basket. “Sit down,” 
said he, and that he didn’t smile broadly was probably 
due to the fact that it was part of his duty to hold his 
pipe between his teeth and talk at the same time. He 
took up the memoranda that had been briefly consid- 
ered when first he saw Billy in the office, and proceeded 
to explain what little the paper knew about an impor- 
tant financial deal that was supposed to be in the wind. 
At the end he gave the memoranda to Billy and told 
him to find out about it. Billy left the office immediately 
in the most businesslike manner. 

“I wonder,” said the city editor, absently, “if he’s 
really sober?” 

“You never can tell about him,” responded the as- 
sistant. 

By six o’clock Billy had turned in as clean-cut a story 


The Song and the Singer. 


267 


as the most exacting editor could desire. It was not 
complete as a matter of news, for there lacked confirma- 
tion of certain features; but the magnates who could 
confirm or deny had not been seen. The city editor 
unhesitatingly made it Billy’s business for the evening 
to look up the magnates at their homes, their clubs, 
the hotel lobbies — anywhere where they might be found. 
Billy said “All right” — his usual way of announcing that 
he understood his instructions — and, without stopping 
for dinner, went directly to Guarda’s hotel. 

The clerk told him that she was at dinner, and Billy, 
strolling to the dining-room door, saw her. He did not 
go in, but waited a full hour in the lobby. It was early 
in his waiting that Calloway came in. The two men 
nodded an indifferent greeting, and Calloway went into 
the dining-room. Billy’s teeth were on edge as he 
sauntered up to the dining-room door a few minutes 
later. Yes, Calloway was at table with Guarda. The 
reporter wheeled about abruptly and went to the side- 
walk, but it was only for a moment. The cool air of 
evening was no better than the hot atmosphere of the 
lobby. 

At last Guarda came from the dining-room. Napoli 
and Calloway were with her. They were chatting gayly 
— that is, Guarda and Calloway were; the signor was 
as silent and emotionless as usual. Billy went directly 
toward the group, and before he was in speaking dis- 
tance Calloway bowed and withdrew. Guarda saw the 
reporter, and in her impulsive way — or was it acting ? — 


268 


The Song and the Singer. 


she stepped forward to meet him. They shook hands. 

“I want to see you,” he said, abruptly. 

“That is a promise of good news,” she answered, 
looking at him, as it seemed, with eagerness. “Will it 
keep for a short time ?” 

“It will if it must,” said he. 

“I am afraid it must, Billy. I have an engagement 
for which I shall be late as it is. Can you call later ?” 

“When?” 

“How short you are ! I shall be anxious to hear 
about it, whatever it is. Will you call at ten?” 

“Yes.” 

He lifted his hat gravely and departed. Guarda 
looked after him curiously, and then went on to the 
carriage that was waiting for her. 

Billy looked over his memoranda. There was an 
onyx-topped bar in front of him, and a red cherry was 
in the bottom of the glass. 

“Twice,” said he, as he set the glass down. 

He thought of dinner, but he had no appetite. The 
two drinks sufficed, for a time, and he went hunting 
for news. One magnate, found at his home, refused 
to talk. Another, encountered in a hotel where finan- 
cial magnates are in the habit of whiling away an even- 
ing with shop talk, told him there was nothing in it. 
Two or three others were out of town — that is, such 
was the information given by the servants at their doors. 
There was one more — Stimson, his name was. He lived 
on West End avenue, and he had the reputation among 


The Song and the Singer. 


269 


the newspaper boys as one who never “gave up.” A 
call on him could be nothing more than a perfunctory 
attention to duty ; it could result in nothing better than 
one line in the story, and a short one at that — “Mr. 
Stimson declined to talk.” 

Billy looked at the clock, that faithful employee of 
the place whose most important duty it was to warn 
the bartenders when to close the front door and pull 
down the curtains. Half-past nine. It was possible to 
make a dash up to Stimson’s, get his refusal to be 
interviewed, and be at Guarda’s hotel no more than 
a few unessential minutes late. That would be doing 
his whole duty by the paper; and as he stood there 
debating, Billy felt a momentary glow of that warm 
enthusiasm that stimulates the newspaper reporter to 
long hours of overwork, that compensates him for com- 
fortless existence, that exercises his ingenuity, causes 
him to face actual peril when need be, and makes him 
a hero among the world’s toilers. Yes, it would be a 
profound satisfaction to see Stimson and feel that he 
had left no stone unturned that might reveal matter to 
make his story complete. Stimson undoubtedly would 
decline to talk — he might even refuse to see the re- 
porter — but that was no concern of Billy’s. Duty — the 
newspaper man seldom makes use of the word, but that 
is what it is — demanded that a call be made upon Stim- 
son, and what that man might say, or might not say, 
was a secondary consideration. 

Pride in his vocation was stirred to the degree that 


270 


The Song and the Singer. 


Billy perceived a certain nobility in the line of conduct 
that demanded the subordination of his great private 
interests to the perfunctory task in behalf of the paper. 
Thus far what he had to add to the story already turned 
in could be covered in six lines. He would go to Stim- 
son’s house and get the half line to make it complete. 

He started for the nearest elevated station. Pres- 
ently he saw a bareheaded, aproned man inclining in- 
quiringly toward him from the other side of a high 
counter. Billy told him what he would have, and when 
it had been put away he went to Guarda’s hotel and 
paced up and down the office till he knew that she had 
returned. Then he sent up his card, and in due course 
he was in her presence. 

She was alone, her eyes were aglow with anticipation, 
and her manner, if possible, was more gracious than 
ever. 

“It is too bad to have kept you waiting,” said she. 
“I have been wondering all the evening about you, and 
hoping But it’s your turn, Billy. What is it?” 

He told her. Standing like a statue, his enunciation 
unmistakably distinct, and his utterance suggestive of 
the deepest deliberation, he told her. 

“Billy!” she gasped, but there could be no lack of 
comprehension. Never was language more direct, 
never were words more carefully chosen to convey the 
exact thought. It was not misunderstanding, it was 
shock that tied her tongue for the moment. 

“Tve got to know,” said he, “A man who is on fire 


must either go to destruction, or the passion must be 
subdued by her who causes it.” 

A dozen different emotions seemed to fight within 
her. One came momentarily to the fore, and she spoke 
coldly. 

“Mr. Jameson,” said she, “have you forgotten my 
husband ?” 

“No,” he answered; “but you don’t love him. What 
are conventions ” 

“Mr. Jameson! Billy!” she cried, in terrible agita- 
tion. “I did not think that you would insult me. Can 
you not realize that you are offering me an insult ?” 

“The one judge of an insult,” said he, with appalling 
steadiness, “is the woman to whom it is offered. From 
her verdict there is no appeal.” 

She stared at him, amazed. “Then,” said she, sud- 
denly, “I so decide it. Never approach me with apol- 
ogy, for I will not listen.” 

Her hand was pointed commandingly toward the 
door. A shiver passed over him. Then, with that bit- 
terness that is the woeful result of a most generous 
nature turned to gall, he said: “You would not say 
so if Ordway stood in my place.” 

Guarda strode to the door and opened it. 

“Never come back,” said she — “never!” 

He went forth as one who knows the way but sees it 
not. 


II. 

Now conscience wakes despair 
That slumbered — wakes the bitter memory 
Of what he was, what is, and what must be 
Worse. — Milton. 

No one knows, Billy least of all, where he went after 
leaving Guarda. When he looked at his watch in the 
elevator at the office it was half-past twelve, midnight. 
Substantially two hours had passed, and they were all 
blank save that he knew he had just stepped from an 
East Side elevated train at the City Hall station. 
Guarda’s hotel was on the west side of town. There 
was time enough to write the six-line addition to his 
afternoon story, he knew that — knew that there had 
been an afternoon story, but the subject of it and all 
the details had been lost somewhere in that appalling 
blank. What had been his errand when he left the 
office some six hours ago? To see Guarda and tell her 
— but that was not what the city editor had sent him 
to do. He remembered his errand to Guarda with hor- 
rible distinctness. What else had he done ? There had 
been an interval of waiting that he had put in by going 
somewhere and seeing somebody about something. 


The Song and the Singer. 273 

“What was it about? Whom had he seen? Where 
had he been? 

“Editorial floor, Mr. Jameson/’ said the elevator man. 

“I’ll go down again,” Billy responded, steadily. “I’ve 
forgotten something. 

He had been the only passenger on the way up, and 
somebody joined him on the way down. Racking his dis- 
ordered brain for some clue to his business, a way out 
of his dilemma occurred to him that brought a ghastly 
smile to his face. He knew that one significant word 
would evoke a train of recollections. What a joke it 
would be, then, to walk up to the night desk and ask 
for the assignment sheet! There he would find his 
name set against the work he had been detailed to do, 
and he would remember. Or, more brazen still, he 
might startle the night editor, who had been so sus- 
picious of his handwriting, by plumping a frank ques- 
tion at him : “What am I supposed to report on ?” 
Either way would accomplish the immediate result — 
and his discharge on the following morning. Therefore 
neither was to be considered seriously, for Billy, such 
of him as was awake, was again the devoted newspaper 
man. His remnant of pride was to the fore, the same 
impulse that had decided him to call on Stimson. At 
this moment he could not remember Stimson, or that 
no call had been made upon him. 

His first clue to the forgotten business came to him 
when he stepped from the elevator on the ground floor. 
There had been some memoranda connected with the 


274 The Song and the Singer. 

matter. The city editor had given him at least a news- 
paper cutting and a slip of paper with some names 
written on it. Billy went through his pockets and ran 
over the numerous papers he found there. All ap- 
peared to be either foreign to business or absurdly out 
of date. The memoranda he wanted, then, must have 
been left for the edification o 7 some uptown bartender. 
Again he looked over his papers. 

“Hello, Billy!” 

It was a fellow-reporter hurrying in with a belated 
story. The newcomer ran into the elevator car and 
told the man to “let ’er go.” Billy crammed the papers 
into one pocket and went out to the street. He shivered 
at a thought that teemed with gross improbabilities, but 
he seemed to hear the night editor ask, “Where’s Jame- 
son?” and the incoming reporter answer, “Downstairs, 
trying to remember where he’s at.” It seemed as if all 
his loyal friends in the office were gathering around the 
night editor to tell tales about him. Impossible ! But 
Billy fled from the vicinity. He went into City Hall 
Park and halted eventually in a dark angle by the steps 
to the Court House. There he pressed both palms 
against the cold walls of the building and reviewed the 
day with such mighty effort at concentration that the 
perspiration rolled down his cheeks. The morning 
awakening was clear ; his thoughts then had been about 
Guarda. He recalled faking a street scene to account 
for his tardiness. There had been a conversation about 


The Song and the Singer. 275 

his crooked handwriting. Then an assignment that 
took him 

The reporter trembled from head to foot under the 
fearful strain to which he subjected his exhausted nerves. 
All blank except that that had to do with Guarda and 
the last few minutes. Somewhere in that black hiatus 
was a word, an incident, a hiding reminiscence, that 
could be made to issue forth, light the abyss and redeem 
his pride. Was that the word? He bent his head and 
dug his nails into his palms, for he seemed to hear a 
voice in the yawning blackness that said, “There's noth- 
ing in it.” Was that but a horrible mockery of his 
strenuous effprt to do his duty by the paper, or was it 
somehow connected with his business ? It was a pitiable 
clue, if clue it was ; but he fixed his mind upon it and 
gripped it hard. “Nothing in it. Nothing in it. Noth- 
ing in it.” He repeated the words, again and again, 
framing them with his lips, and at last he saw other 
lips frame them — lips set in a face he knew, and that 
presently he could name — Mr. X., one of the most 
prominent operators in Wall Street. A dozen times 

had Billy interviewed him. Nothing in Ah ! ah ! 

now it was coming back — the rumored deal of sensa- 
tional magnitude — the financiers he had seen about it 
in the hotel lobbies — the afternoon story! Now! now 
he had it, all as clear as daylight; and he set out for 
the office, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists lest 
again it escape him. 

It was ten minutes to one when Billy went briskly 


276 


The Song and the Singer. 


to his desk and began to write. Not a man in the office 
looked up. They were too busy to note the presence 
and movements of a reporter who was going about his 
work in the conventional way. The six-line story was 
written in half as many minutes. Then Billy hesitated. 
It was not complete, for no mention was made of Stim- 
son. He remembered with sufficient clearness now that 
he had not seen that taciturn banker. Bah ! at that 
hour there was no time for judgment to listen to argu- 
ment, no time to dally with conscience. Billy dabbed 
once more at his copy paper, and wrote the short line 
that rounded out his work and made the report com- 
plete. 

‘‘Mr. Stimson declined to talk.” 

He sauntered up to the night desk and laid down his 
copy. 

“Had a long chase after these fellows,” said he, “but 
I kept at it as long as there was any chance of getting 
anything.” 

“Couldn’t establish it, eh?” queried the night editor, 
glancing at the brief paragraph marked “Add Wall 
Street Deal.” 

“No. Seems to be nothing in it,” and at the words, 
uttered without premeditation, Billy all but shuddered. 
“That is,” he added, “they’re not ready to admit it.” 

“Glad of it,” said the night editor, shortly. “We’re 
crowded to death to-night.” 

The day’s work was done, for Billy, and the strenuous 
last half-hour was followed by dizzy reaction. His 


The Song and the Singer. 277 

knees were painfully weak when he stood in the ele- 
vator, and he was overcome with faintness. It did not 
occur to him that he had eaten neither breakfast nor 
dinner, and he had no thought of supper. The excite- 
ment of the crisis in his work through which he had 
passed was quelled quickly, for that lay in the ordinary 
course of events. It was not the first time, although 
the worst, that he had forgotten his assignment between 
leaving some place uptown and arriving at the office. 
His memory never had failed to come to his rescue in 
time. But he could not drown Guarda ; and when, at 
three o’clock, or thereabout, he sank upon his bed, her 
imperious dismissal of him was as distinct in his con- 
sciousness as if he were enduring a horrid dream. 

So, then, we have come to Thursday morning. Ord- 
way was astir at his usual hour, but there was nothing 
to call him forth until nearly noon, and he busied him- 
self after breakfast with the reduced orchestration of 
his aria that he had promised to make for Guarda. 
About ten o’clock came a knock at his door, and when 
he had said “Come in,” there stood Elise with a letter. 
She beamed a most distracting smile upon the musician, 
and then placed her hand affectedly upon her heart. 

“Ah ! m’sieu,” she said ; “such stairs ! And so many 
of them !” 

He had risen, and was offering her a chair. 

“Sit down,” he responded, cordially, “and get your 
breath. If you had to climb them often you wouldn’t 


278 


The Song and the Singer. 


mind. I can come up on the run and not notice that 
my heart beats any the faster.” 

“Dieu!” said she, calmly. “There is a reason for 
that.” 

“So?” he inquired; “a reason beside the fact that I 
am used to the stairs?” 

“Indeed, yes, I think so, m’sieu.” 

Elise was seated and pretending to fan herself with 
the letter. It was in a small, square envelope, and 
made about as much breeze as might a single roseleaf. 

“Well,” he said, in as nearly a light way as he ever 
spoke, “I know you are dying to tell me, so speak out. 
Why should not my heart beat faster after running up- 
stairs ?” 

“Is it not that m’sieu has no heart?” She looked up 
at him archly. 

“No heart?” he echoed, blankly. “That is rather 
funny. I thought I had enough for two.” 

Elise shook her head. “See !” she said, and she 
called his attention to the letter, but without offering 
it to him, “I come for the first time to your room. I 
bring something in my hand that you cannot help to 
see, and you .cannot be so — what you call it — so stupid 
as to know not what it is — a letter, m’sieu, from Guarda ! 
And yet m’sieu stands there so cold like an ice hill. He 
does not tear it from my hand ; he does not cover it 
with kisses — dame ! he does not ask for it ! That is 
because there is no heart in m’sieu ; is it not ?” 

“I can hardly regard the evidence as convincing,” 


The Song and the Singer. 


279 


he answered, quietly. “So it is only a letter from 
madame ” 

“Only !” 

“Should I not suppose that you had come to arrange 
for music lessons, and that I should be disappointed at 
not being able to add a pupil to my list ?” 

Elise stared at him for a moment. “Dieu !” she said ; 
“when you try you make the joke like that other, that 
Billy ; is it not ?” 

“Did you say you had a letter for me?” 

She threw it upon his table and shrugged her shoul- 
ders. “If m’sieu will pardon me,” she snapped, “I am 
to wait for his answer.” 

Ordway nodded and opened the envelope. It con- 
tained a very short note addressed to “My dear friend,” 
asking him to call at five in the afternoon, and to say 
through Elise whether or no he could do so. 

“Very well,” he said; “you may say yes.” 

“Is it that m’sieu will not write?” asked Elise, elevat- 
ing her brows. 

He glanced again at the letter. “There is nothing 
more to say than that,” he answered. “You can re- 
member as much as one word, can’t you?” 

Elise did not reply. “But,” he added, “don’t let me 
hurry you. Do wait till your heart beats normally and 
you have breath enough for the stairs.” 

She seemed to take him at his word, for she sat still 
and he took up his pen. 


28 o 


The Song and the Singer. 


“M’sieu!” she exclaimed, suddenly, “I should like to 
stick a pin into you !” 

"‘Good gracious! Why?” 

“To see what would happen.” 

“I can tell you.” 

“Well, m’sieu?” 

“I should holler. Have you learned that English 
word ?” 

“I know what it means. It is what you say to the 
telephone, is it not? But I do not think m’sieu would 
holler.” 

“Perhaps not if he knew that the stab was coming. 
You might try,” and he took a fresh pen from his box, 
crossed to her and held the back of his hand temptingly 
within her reach. 

Elise did not take the proffered pen. She looked up 
at his face and knit her brows as she saw his bantering 
expression. Then she stroked his hand tentatively. 
“Yes,” she murmured; “flesh and blood, just like the 
hand of a man ; and, oh ! what it is to think that there 
is one so beautiful who would caress that hand tenderly 
if she dared !” 

Ordway dropped his hand to his side as if it had been 
stung. 

“Elise !” said he, sternly, “you forget yourself !” 

“No,” she responded, unconcernedly, “I no forget. 
M’sieu appears to be a man, but he is blind. That is 
all.” 

He was speechless for a moment, dazed by a confu- 


The Song and the Singer. 


281 


sion of emotions and thoughts. He saw now, ot what 
he had been childishly innocent at the start, the purport 
of all Elise’s insinuations. Disturbed, indignant, aston- 
ished — aye, fearful — he knew not how to meet the situa- 
tion. Calloway’s face had been slapped for a less direct 
insult. Elise was a woman, and there she sat, flashing 
her dark eyes upon him and smiling mockingly. 

“But there is hope for m’sieu,” she added, with a 
laugh. “He has ears to hear, and he blushes divinely. 
Dame ! but it is to laugh !” 

“Madame Napoli is waiting for your return,” he said, 
coldly, and he opened the door. 

She arose at once, but it was still with mockery and 
insinuation. “Madame Napoli !” she repeated, with a 
world of scorn on the title. “It is such a barrier, is it 
not, that a strong man cannot leap over it? Adieu, 
m’sieu. Elise is to say yes. Ah, well, she had no need 
to prick him with a pin to draw his blood. Adieu, 
m’sieu.” 

Mocking and suggestive to the last, she departed, and 
Ordway stood by the door trembling. He tried pres- 
ently to resume his work, but the pen would not do his 
plain bidding. There was no problem on the music 
paper to make him pause, but he would have found it 
equally difficult to write the alphabet. He drew a bar 
line, saw that it wavered, and gave it up. Going forth, 
he walked until it was time to meet a pupil at his church. 

It may have been hunger — certainly it was not habit — 
that awaked Billy an hour before noon. He lay for a 


282 


The Song and the Singer. 


moment in conscious, awful exhaustion. Without ef- 
fort he reviewed the crisis of his relations with Guarda. 
That scene was burned into his memory to stay till 
death, and he knew it. He tried, not in the hope of 
dismissing it, but to alleviate the anguish it caused, to 
think of business. What had been his work for the 
paper yesterday? Ah ! the financial story ! He remem- 
bered the circumstances, the fact that some hours of 
his life had dropped away from him to be recalled in 
the nick of time by a furious struggle, and he crawled 
part way from bed, only to sink back again. He was 
dreadfully weak, but it was not altogether weakness that 
sent him upon his face. Billy was overwhelmed with 
hot shame. 

There came upon him, as there had before, a humilia- 
tion at the deterioration of his physique, and there was 
added to it now the bitter consciousness that in his 
excess, in a period when reason was dethroned, he had 
taken a step that could not be justified. He had in- 
sulted the woman he loved. 

“Worthless !” he called himself. “A sot ! A con- 
temptible wreck !” and other things which his still de- 
lirious fancy readily brought to mind. 

And this brought a reaction that was wholesome to 
a degree. Often had he jeered at men who had been 
ruined because a woman said them no. If there were 
anything more to be despised than a drunkard, it had 
seemed to him to be a man who gave way to sickly 
repining in the face of a woman’s rejection. Here he 


The Song and the Singer. 


283 


was apparently at the bottom of both abysses, and he 
swore that he would not stand it. There was some- 
thing of manly pride left, and on that he would build 
anew. Reform ! Detestable word, but he must face it. 
He would reform, inwardly as well as outwardly, and 
his friends would not recognize him. 

It was with thoughts of this kind that he again 
essayed to rise, and this time he succeeded, though he 
had to catch at the bureau, his head whirled . so. There 
was the morning paper in the next room. Ordway al- 
ways left it for him. He must see that and find where 
he stood. His memory might have played him a 
wretched trick. 

Billy staggered into the sitting-room, found the paper, 
and turned its pages with trembling hands. The first 
thing he saw was his humorous street scene, but he read 
merely enough of it to be sure that it was his own. He 
remembered nothing of it, but it had the earmarks of 
his style, and he browsed further. Ah, yes ! the ru- 
mored deal ! Here it was under an ordinary head, dis- 
missed as one of the premature reports of something 
that might come true after months had passed. This 
was his story, word for word as he had written it. He 
remembered the phraseology now. It was all there to 
the last line : “Mr. Stimson declined to talk.” 

The reporter felt better. It was possible now to think 
of getting into his clothes, and he wondered, without 
seeing anything humorous in it, how he had managed 
to get out of them when he came home. Dressing is 


284 


The Song and the Singer. 


a difficult task this morning; but never mind, Billy — 
there comes a time when a man’s clothes are put on 
for him. The limbs shake — aye, but what is a chair 
for, and what the convenient bed but to rest upon? 
Courage, Billy! There comes a time when there has 
to be no morning struggle with clothes, or faintness, 
or appetite. The head swims at the effort of putting 
on the coat? The quivering body shrinks from walk- 
ing? There is a terror about trying to descend the 
stairs? Patience, Billy! The time comes when strong 
arms bear the tired, worn-out body forth and a carriage 
waits at the door. There ! steady, now ; there is no 
hurry. What matter a few minutes more or less in re- 
porting at the office? It is not yet noon, not quite. 
And this is Thursday. You haven’t thought of that, 
Billy; but that is the day. Would it mean nothing to 
you if you had thought of it ? Well, well ; this day with 
its momentous significance has yet half its length to 
run. 

The bartender in the saloon at the corner may have 
chanced to see Billy passing without pause for his cus- 
tomary bracer, but that stolid observer could not have 
dreamed that Billy had sworn a mighty resolution — that 
the fun-loving newspaper man had called there for the 
last time. No more bracers — that is, of the bartender’s 
kind. Billy crawled on — it was too slow and painful a 
march to be called a walk — to a drugstore. 

“I have been drunk,” he said, bluntly, to the clerk. 
“1 don’t remember that I ate anything yesterday, but 


The Song and the Singer. 285 

I drank barrels. I want something to straighten me 
out.” 

“Have you eaten anything to-day?” asked the clerk, 
with all the deference due to so uncommon a customer. 

“No; but I will as soon as I have a stomach for it. 
That’s what I’m after, I suppose — a substitute stomach.” 

The clerk gave him a bitter mixture, which he swal- 
lowed. 

“Shall I try a breakfast now?” asked Billy. 

“No,” was the advice ; “wait till you feel like eating.” 

The reporter went on to the elevated road and bought 
three or four newspapers while waiting for his train. 
He did not look at them until he had found a seat and 
the train had started. Then he began a systematic ex- 
amination of their contents, as was his custom, but he 
did not carry his quest far, for on the first page of the 
first paper he took up was a story under a scare head 
about one of the greatest financial deals known to 
modern times. It was the matter upon which he had 
been at work. This paper evidently believed that the 
deal was an accomplished fact ; and well it might, for 
there was authoritative announcement of it in the shape 
of a column interview with Banker Stimson. 

“Mr. Stimson declined to talk.” 

Billy’s heart sank heavily. Had Stimson actually 
broken his rule and “given up”? Or was this a con- 
scienceless fake by a daring guesser? Not the latter, 
for the quotation of the banker’s words was direct. 
Indeed, the interview had all the appearance of having 


286 


The Song and the Singer. 


been prepared by the banker himself against the time 
when the reporters should call for his word on the 
subject. There was a way to confirm that supposition, 
and Billy took it. He turned to the other papers. 
Every one had a heavily displayed interview with Stim- 
son. He compared the reports. The interview was 
exactly the same in every paper. Stimson had dictated 
it to the reporters in a body, or had prepared it at his 
office and had his secretary make copies. It mattered 
not just how the statement had been given forth. The 
crushing fact was that every paper in town had it except 
Billy’s. 

He dropped the papers upon his knee and tried to 
choke down despair. All the humiliation of the hour 
of waking rushed back upon him with tenfold force. 
Reform! Impossible with his disgrace and unfaithful- 
ness published abroad ; for so it would be in every 
newspaper office in town, not by black type, but by 
blacker shop talk. He was disgraced, irretrievably dis- 
graced, and that he had disgraced himself was aside 
from the mark. It was the plain fact that counted, and, 
worst of all, he knew now that he was indeed worthless 
— of no use to himself or anybody. 

Then upon that abysmal conviction came hurrying, 
racing, tearing along, a terrible idea. It fastened its 
crunching talons upon his heart and mind, and neither 
wit nor reason could dislodge it. From thenceforth 
Billy’s course was guided — nay, commanded — by that 
dark officer of destiny. 


III. 

That fellow seems to me to possess but one idea, and 
that a wrong one. — Johnson. 

Billy left his papers in the car and went to a restau- 
rant. You must eat, the idea said; if something is to 
be accomplished, there must be strength for it, and we 
need all we can muster, you and I. The reporter re- 
sisted feebly at first. It is merely your stomach that 
rebels, said the idea ; see how long you have made it 
do your bidding! What excess of obnoxious fluid you 
have compelled it to carry ! Make it serve you now, 
and in a few hours it will thank you and give you rich 
return in needed strength. So Billy sat down and or- 
dered that that he thought could be swallowed most 
easily. That’s right, chuckled the idea, hoarsely ; hood- 
wink your abused stomach into believing that another 
drink is coming. We shall get on, you and I. But 
how? Billy began to ask, anxiously; it would be worse 
than nothing to fail. Aye, responded the idea, frown- 
ing darkly; there must be no possibility of failure. 
Pistols miss fire, an excited man’s aim may be bad, 
knives break at the handle, or strike a button and are 
deflected. Think, then, of what may be done with ordi- 

287 


288 


The Song and the Singer. 


nary human strength and the implements Nature gave 
you. Think! Eat, that you may think clearly; eat 
that you may have strength for your purpose — for me ! 
It is a dreadful purpose, protested Billy, in a last de- 
spairing attempt at insubordination. What ! cried the 
idea, so loudly that it seemed as if all the chattering 
lunchers must be startled by it. What ! worse than a 
useless life? Worse than to be snuffed out without 
doing one stroke of real good ? Pah ! stick not at con- 
ventions. Look to the end and let that justify the 
means if you still think action needs justification. Ac- 
complish something worth while, Billy — something 
worth while ! something worth while ! 

Thus the unequal debate ended. Billy, vanquished, 
nursed the idea, coddled it and saw it grow. He came 
to glory in its growth, and he hugged it deeper into his 
heart. There were moments when a quaking caution 
possessed him, and he looked furtively at his neighbors 
to see whether they noticed anything unusual. Well 
he knew — for was he not sober? — that the black idea 
could not be seen. His gruesome companion did not 
sit in the chair beside him. It was hidden from com- 
mon vision. But he, himself — he, Billy — felt so changed 
that it seemed as if somebody, the familiar waiter, at 
least, must observe the change. No ; the stupid throng 
at the tables rattled its knives, worked its jaws and 
laughed its cheerful laughs as if there were no such 
thing in the world as a black idea. Billy actually ad- 
dressed his companion on the subject. We’re fooling 


The Song and the Singer. 


289 


them, he said, and the idea grinned back his own gloomy 
satisfaction. The waiter was as blind as the rest. He 
saw nothing more than a frequent customer making a 
somewhat eccentric meal for midday, and if he thought 
of it he minded that this had happened before, and that 
on other occasions, unlike this one, the eccentric cus- 
tomer had departed leaving his order paid for but un- 
tasted. 

It was the lightest of light breakfasts that Billy put 
down, but his stomach held it; and, thus fortified, he 
went on to the office. The city room was at its live- 
liest. Hardly a man had started out on his assignment. 
Some were studying memoranda given them by the city 
editor and planning their afternoon’s work. Two were 
at the moment receiving their instructions. Others 
were writing specials, or making up their space bills, 
or chatting while waiting to be called to the desk for 
orders. The few who saw Billy come in nodded pleas- 
antly, and he returned the greeting in his usual non- 
chalant manner. They don’t see anything, either, he 
said silently to it within his bosom. He sat at his desk 
and methodically clipped his stories from the morning 
paper. These he pasted on a long sheet of manilla 
paper with other articles published on previous days. 
When he had discovered and pasted every scrap he had 
had published since last payday, he measured the va- 
rious articles and calculated their value to him at the 
established column rate. The figures were set down 
upon his bill, and after he had added them he subtracted 


290 The Song and the Singer. 

from the total the amount that might be charged for 
the street scene and the financial story of yesterday. 
At that the total proved to be more than fifty dollars. 

He looked hard at the figures and counted the money 
in his pockets. There was not much of the latter. It 
was too near the week end for a considerable surplus, 
but he was fairly satisfied. The amount could be made 
to do — if he had the spending of it. Ordway was habit- 
ually economical, but in this matter he might be inclined 
to extravagance. Idle speculation, however ; the amount 
would be, in round numbers, sixty dollars better than 
nothing, and that was worth while. 

The men were drifting out rapidly now. Billy pre- 
tended to be absorbed in his newspaper, but he read 
not, and from the tail of his eye he saw the last man 
depart. The city room was significantly quiet, for no 
voice called to him from the corner where the city editor 
sat. 

Billy arose with a kind of jerk, as if he had taken 
a sudden resolution, and went over to that corner, carry- 
ing his bill and pasted slips in his hand. There was an 
easy smile on his face, set and kept there by the idea. 

“Mr. Jameson,” said the city editor, in a low, strained 
tone, “we have no work for you.” 

“I know it,” responded Billy. “I could have sent in 
a written resignation, but I preferred to face the music 
and have it out with you.” 

The city editor nestled in his chair as if he wished the 
reporter had preferred resignation to discharge. “I 


The Song and the Singer. 


291 


can’t tell you how sorry I am/’ he said, and he fumbled 
so in filling his pipe that the tobacco lay in crumbs all 
over his desk. “You may have observed that I didn’t 
speak of it while the other men were here.” 

“Yes, I noticed that. I have made out my bill to 
date, and I ask you to observe that I have withdrawn 
the charge for yesterday’s pretence at work.” 

He laid the bill on the desk, and the city editor looked 
it over, not from any desire to audit it in the usual way, 
but because it served to relieve the embarrassment of 
the moment. Presently he put his O. K. and initials 
on the bill and pushed it away from him. 

“Personally,” he said, “I am very sorry, and I should 
be so officially if I thought we were losing the man who 
came to us four or five years ago. You have been one 
of the most brilliant newspaper men in the city, Mr. 
Jameson, and you could be still if you would stop 
drinking.” 

“I have stopped,” said Billy, quietly ; and then, as the 
reply seemed to embarrass the city editor still further, 
he added, hastily: “But I do not ask you to believe 
that or to take me back.” 

“I wouldn’t,” the city editor said, “for, after the disas- 
trous beating you allowed us to get this morning, the 
chief wouldn’t sustain me in retaining you. I’d like to 
ask, though, if you really saw Mr. Stimson, or if that 
last line in your report was a fake.” 

“It was a lie,” answered Billy. “I never went near 
the man.” 


292 The Song and the Singer. 

The city editor drew a long breath and puffed silently 
for a moment. “Of course, it makes no difference/’ he 
commented, at last ; “but I did hope you had some sort 
of explanation. I have said nothing about this to any- 
body. It may be two or three days before your absence 
will be noticed by the other boys. Meantime you may 
drop into a good thing on some other paper. There 
are plenty of changes going on, and you must have 
friends outside this office. I suggest that you make 
a break for another place at once. Get hold of one 
before anything is known to your discredit, and you’ll 
know how to keep it. You can refer to me with 
safety.” 

So the smile that had been summoned to make im- 
pudent face at a wrathful superior was unnecessary! 
Billy was wellnigh prostrated with astonishment. For 
a single instant his purpose wavered, but the idea went 
to barking and snarling within him. Delusion ! it said ; 
your curse will follow you. Let him be kind, if he will. 
It is nothing to you. Accomplish something worth 
while! And, dominated by the idea, Billy hurriedly 
interrupted. 

“Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate that ; but I am 
quitting the newspaper business. I shall not write an- 
other line. Good-bye !” 

He held out his hand. The city editor grasped it, 
looking blankly at him, and gripping his pipe with his 
teeth. 

“Good-bye,” he muttered, and Billy went striding 


The Song and the Singer. 


293 


across the room. He paused in the counting-room to 
cash his bill and wheedled the paymaster, with char- 
acteristic bantering, to hunting through his money for 
a fifty-dollar bank note. 

“Don’t you see,” said Billy, “it won’t be so easy to 
spend that. If it were in tens and fives, zip! away 
they’d go for rent and board, and clothes, and such 
frivolities.” 

“And cold bottles,” suggested the paymaster, taking 
a shot at Billy’s weakness. 

“Oh, no ! Cold bottles for cashiers,” responded Billy, 
with a loud laugh. “Reporters have to be content with 
• plain hot stuff.” 

An hour later, as nearly as can be made out, Billy 
ran across Fatty Miller down Wall street way. 

“Hello,” said Fatty, with a touch of indignation in his 
tone, “didn’t you have that financial story yesterday? 
How the mischief did you let us get left on it ?” 

“That isn’t the point, Fatty,” replied Billy. “You’ve 
missed it entirely. Suppose,” and he backed the portly 
man against a building and punctuated his remarks by 
tapping on Fatty’s expansive chest, “suppose there was 
an obstacle to the happiness of two friends of yours. 
Don’t you think that obstacle should be removed?” 

Fatty’s eyes twinkled dully. He thought he foresaw 
one of Billy’s jokes. 

“I should say so on general principles,” said he. 
“What’s the special instance?” 

“Fatty, I didn’t call on you to discuss special in- 


294 The Song and the Singer. 

stances. General principles is all I want ; but, for the 
sake of argument, suppose that this obstacle was a 
dried up, no account husk in the form of a man. 
What ” 

The wild, ungoverned glow in Billy’s eyes fright- 
ened the portly man. “See here, Billy,” he interrupted, 
“you mustn’t talk like that even in joke. It doesn’t 
sound well ” 

“I never was so serious !” 

“Then for heaven’s sake go home and sleep it off.” 

Billy drew back abruptly. His eyes were glassy for 
an instant, and then infinite cunning warmed them. 
“He thinks I’m drunk,” he muttered with a chuckle, and 
walked rapidly away. 

“Full as a tick,” was Fatty’s silent comment, as he 
went about his business. 

Still later in the day Billy encountered a musician 
with whom he was well acquainted. This was uptown. 

“My friend,” said Billy, gravely, “I have discov- 
ered my mission. Whenever I see an obstacle to hap- 
piness ” Fie knit his brows, stared a second, and 

turned away, walking rapidly, heedless of the jovial 
questions called after him. 

Thursday, at a quarter to five in the afternoon, Billy 
is in a drug store not far from Guarda’s hotel. “Some- 
thing to straighten the nerves,” he says placidly to the 
clerk, and takes the dose mechanically. He asks for an- 
other article that the clerk demurs at putting up, where- 
upon Billy laughs in the most openhearted way. Event- 


The Song and the Singer. 295 

ually the clerk is persuaded, and Billy goes forth with 
the article in his pocket. 

At five minutes to five he knocks softly at the door 
of Signor Giuseppe Napoli’s room. 


IV. 


Cometh the victor, leading home his slaves, 

New conquests making of the gaping crowd. 

Let pass ; my banner o’er no pageant waves ; 

Exultant I in what my spirit craves 

One captive’s head before me bowed. 

— Unknown. 

Let alone the perturbation that lingered with Ordway 
through the afternoon. At five o’clock, prompt to the 
minute, his card was presented to Guarda. It seemed 
to him instantly when he stood before her that some- 
how she was different. Little given to observation in 
the matter of women’s dress, he was aware that he had 
not seen her thus arrayed. Whether she were more 
dressed or less dressed than usual was beyond his ken ; 
but never, he knew, had her beauty been set off so ex- 
quisitely. It was not now the regal beauty of the 
conquering prima, dazzling and impressive to a multi- 
tude of beholders. This was rather a special appeal, 
if we may imagine a beautiful woman playing to an 
audience of one, and that one an undistinguished mem- 
ber of her own profession. It was as if the woman, and 
not the singer, were presented to view, the apparel 
nicely adjusted to the atmosphere of intimacy which 

296 


The Song and the Singer. 297 

may be found in any established home, and in a hotel 
parlor if the hostess there chooses to create it. 

Not thus did Ordway analyze the lovely spectacle. 
He could not have told you whether the dress were 
white or pink, negligee or precise, and the possible 
subtleties of purpose in the costume passed him by ; but 
they were not thrown away upon him. They never are 
thrown away on any man, are they? Is not the aim of 
the composer so to adjust his orchestration that the de- 
tails escape attention in the emotions they arouse? Is 
not his art most successful when it conceals its own 
most patiently contrived devices ? Surely ; and so with 
regard to a woman’s suggestion, through dress, of her 
ungarnished loveliness. The unobserving eye of man 
may ignore the clinging fabric, but his heart flutters, 
and she, who is all observation, will know why. 

The manner — and that is to say, in this instance, the 
inward spirit of the woman — impressed itself with more 
distinctness upon the musician’s sensitive nature. To- 
day he was supersensitive, as the result of Elise’s 
troublesome insinuations, and his habit of self-analysis 
warned him not to be misled by appearances of no more 
than superficial significance. Yet he could not but ob- 
serve that her hand clasped his with warmth that seemed 
more than ordinary cordiality, and that it lingered till 
it was an awkward matter to withdraw his own. Her 
eyes, too, were they not searching his with more than or- 
dinary intensity? The air quivered with expectancy. 
She had sent for him, sent by a very special messenger. 


298 ' The Song and the Singer. 

Of course, then, there was some business of more than 
ordinary importance and interest to be discussed. 

“You are quite well?” she inquired, “quite sure of 
yourself?” 

“Decidedly,” said he, and the tone would have been 
sufficient without the word. 

Guarda laughed, but not spontaneously. “I have 
something very strange to tell you,” she said. “I won- 
der, yes, I wonder, if you do not guess it ?” 

How her eyes essayed to pierce to the depths of his 
soul ! He responded with a poor attempt at careless 
pleasantry. “I am a Yankee,” he said, “and celebrated 
as the only one of his kind who does not guess.” 

“I wish you were not the exception,” said she; “it 
would be easier.” 

The words conveyed no meaning to him. It was 
the manner, rather, that evoked a silent protest. Why 
should she drive so close to the line that, unknown to 
her, he had marked as forbidden territory? 

“I have been working on your score,” he said 
abruptly. 

“There is no hurry for that, a month from now will 
do. Mr. Ordway, my friend,” and suddenly the light 
of a new thought danced in her eyes ; “I sent for you 
to tell you one thing,” she went on hurriedly, “and now, 
quite on the spur of the moment, I decide to tell you 
another. Shall I?” 

“Why not ? I am here to listen.” 

“And not to speak?” 


The Song and the Singer. 299 

She waited and he looked at her blankly. 

“Well, then/’ and she caught her breath with a little 
gasp, “you love me.” 

He said not a word. On the contrary, his lips 
crowded each other as if in determined effort to sup- 
press utterance. Her cheeks paled perceptibly. 

“It is so ?” she demanded with eager insistence ; “you 
must not dream that you can deny now what you have 
been unable to conceal all these months since Boxford. 
It is so, is it not?” 

“It is,” he answered huskily ; “I could not help it.” 

The color returned to her cheeks in a flood. 

“See !” she cried animatedly, “you have declared your- 
self ; and I had supposed that I, a woman, should have 
to do so, that I should have to arrogate to myself the 

man’s privilege, or duty but no, you have spoken, 

and now the woman can answer. Herbert,” and she 
went swiftly to him, putting her hands softly to his 
face, “I love you with all my soul !” 

He might have seen what was coming. Looking 
back upon it at a later time, he knew that he had seen, 
in a way, but it was darkly, for he held stubbornly before 
the eyes of his spirit the mask of plain duty as he under- 
stood it. So now the revelation came to him with all 
the effect of an astounding surprise, and he knew not 
how to meet it. 

“Guarda! Guarda!” he stammered, and his arms 
hung limp at his sides. 

There had been dreams, waking dreams, for not ab 


3 00 


The Song and the Singer. 


ways was he equal to forbidding them, of a scene akin 
to this. His fancy never could have pictured such a be- 
ginning, with the conscious and pretty comedy of mak- 
ing him appear to speak first, but the culmination, now 
at hand, had swam before his vision as the Elysium un- 
attainable for him. It had seemed to him as if to clasp 
her in his arms, and press his lips to her brow, once 
only and then to part, would be compensation for life- 
long solitude thereafter. And now that Guarda invited 
him, that her sweet breath came softly to his lips, that 
her heart throbbed against his breast, he stood in agon- 
ized chill, unable to raise his hands, and amazed at him- 
self. 

Was Elise right? No; but this was a manner of man 
of which she and many another could have no concep- 
tion. 

The event moved swiftly. Agony of minutes was 
compressed into that briefest pause between his stam- 
mered cry and her response. 

“Your Guarda, Herbert, yours if you will have me.” 

She caught his arm impulsively and drew it about her 
waist. 

“My Puritan,” she said, and laughed in his eyes, and 
kissed him on the lips. 

“Guarda !” he cried again, and his voice choked. The 
barriers were thrown down at last. He pressed her to 
his heart and kissed her repeatedly, transported, yet 
troubled, wildly stirred, yet conscious that this was not 
the unclouded Elysium, the sublimated happiness that 


The Song and the Singer. 301 

had been his waking dream. Her Puritan! Aye, the 
false note was there, and it jarred even then when the 
physical man overwhelmed that finer substance to which 
he had been heir, and which may be called spiritual be- 
cause it is purer than the merely moral. 

“I do not understand,” he said finally, holding her a 
bit from him and doubtless displaying clearly to her 
the tormenting doubts that were within him. Not that 
she could understand or appreciate them fully. If she 
had, she would not have said, “My Puritan.” 

“I know,” she responded with a certain soothing con- 
descension in her limpid tones, “but it is such a triumph 
to win you, to defeat you, to feel that everything has 
been brushed away by the power of love, that I almost 
dislike to tell you and make things clear. You are 
thinking of Giuseppe.” 

“Of Signor Napoli, yes,” and in his heart he felt ap- 
prehensively that he was thinking of himself also. He 
was still amazed. Was this turbulence bliss ? Was this 
what came of love, of the passion that dominates im- 
periously? Could it be that one may not know hap- 
piness at sight? 

A wise question, Ordway. It is something to dwell 
upon when circumstances are more favorable to lucid, 
continuous reflection; when analysis may properly as- 
sume her function. Analysis has no business here, and 
you are guiltily conscious of the fact. Dismiss it, then, 
for now, close to this lovely woman who gives herself 
to you without apparent reserve, you cannot do else 


3 02 


The Song and the Singer. 


than yield to the situation. You are under the influ- 
ence of sex, Ordway. The world at large calls that love. 
The world is right enough, and if there is question as to 
the comprehensiveness of the definition, whether it 
really expresses the whole truth, this is no place or time 
to dispute about it. 

“Signor Napoli,” she repeated, laughing lightly, as if 
the name amused her. “Come, I must ring up the cur- 
tain on the last act of my comedy.” 

She led him to a sofa, where they sat, their hands 
clasped, she leaning ever toward him save as her dra- 
matic nature and habit impelled her from time to time 
to gesture with head and shoulders. 

“You have supposed that Giuseppe is my husband,” 
said she. 

“Certainly. Everybody has said so.” 

“And everybody believes it save myself and him. 
Faithful Giuseppe ! His latter days have been luxurious 
to a degree he never dreamed of till the reality was 
pounced upon him. Fie is my employee, Herbert, my 
servant.” 

“It is still incomprehensible,” said he, when she 
paused. 

“Have you not heard,” she asked, “that I am, or was, 
rich?” 

“Yes, that you were rich. I heard also that you had 

lost your fortune and that you ” he halted, confused, 

and she laughed as she finished for him. 

“That I married poor old Giuseppe for his money.” 


The Song and the Singer. 303 

“That is the general understanding. It has been pub- 
lished, not in so many blunt words, but substantially 
that. I have never heard that you denied it.” 

“I never have, but what did you think of me for that 
supposed marriage?” 

“I — I regretted it, of course, but I never disparaged 
you in my thoughts. That you had done it was justifi- 
cation enough for me.” 

“Ah!” she cried gladly, “I might have known that 
would be your comment! Now, listen, Herbert, and I 
will tell you all about it. I was young, talented and 
alone. I need not hesitate to add that I was attractive, 
for my money could account for that. There was abun- 
dant evidence of my attractiveness, or that of my money, 
when I went to Europe to complete my studies and 
acquire the prestige necessary for recognition in my own 
country. Do I need to dwell on the misery that my 
unprotected status called upon me? Surely not. You 
can imagine it. My eye then was single for success in 
my career, as it has been since. I was the merest slip 
of a girl when I made the great resolution of my life 
that nothing, nothing, and again nothing should be per- 
mitted to stand in the way of the triumph that I knew 
I was gifted to achieve. Men over there, managers, 
impressarios, and the like, told me with brutal frank- 
ness that success lay in the favor of this or that noble- 
man or wealthy patron of the art. Through this or an- 
other I could gain a hearing at this or that opera house. 
I never had a moment’s doubt, Herbert. That was not 


304 


The Song and the Singer. 


the way to my success, but refusing to take it, I found 
that it became a hindrance as well as a source of mor- 
tifying annoyance. Do not think that dishonorable 
proposals alone were made to me. There were men of 
wealth and title who would have married me, but I 
would not marry. I loved nothing but my career, and 
I would not entertain any proposition that threatened 
even remotely to hinder it. In my distress and disap- 
pointment I racked my brain for a way to shield myself 
from annoyance. ‘If I could only pretend to be mar- 
ried !’ I cried again and again, only to perceive the next 
moment that a husband must be in evidence, or the 
pretence would avail little. 

“Then I chanced upon Giuseppe Napoli. He had 
been a servant in a noble family all his life. The family 
died out, one member after another dropping away in 
rapid succession, and at last Giuseppe was without place 
or employer. He had been everywhere, and by force 
of habit had the most impressively dignified demeanor. 
Among the localities in everywhere that he had visited 
was Monte Carlo. His master had left him a fortune 
ample for his needs, but Giuseppe was not content to 
retire to a village or a modest pension. He must dis- 
port himself en gentilhomme, as befitted a man of inde- 
pendent means. That required more money, and Giu- 
seppe knew how it was to be obtained without sacri- 
ficing an iota of his ponderous dignity. He invented 
or bought a roulette system, and in short order was re- 
duced to beggary. It was then that I happened upon 


The Song and the Singer. 


305 


him. An acquaintance with whom I was staying at 
Monte Carlo pointed him out and told me his story. I 
had a brilliant idea, and I acted on it without further 
meditation. I went privately to Giuseppe and offered 
him a life of distinguished ease, plenty of variety, no 
work to speak of, with salary ample to his supposed 
relation to me and the promise of an annuity if the time 
should come when I should choose to dispense with 
him. The time has arrived, Herbert.” 

“I seem to be no less astonished than at first,” he 
said. “Is it possible that this device passed unsuspected 
in Europe?” 

“It took some management,” she answered, “at first 
and in places where Giuseppe had been seen with his 
master, but some months after he had stopped shaving 
his upper lip there was no difficulty whatever. It was 
I who perceived the necessity of a moustache,” and she 
laughed gaily. 

“And did this fantastic device accomplishd its pur- 
pose ?” 

Guarda stood up suddenly and the jubilant expression 
on her face turned to bitterness. 

“No !” she cried, “not altogether. It prevented you 
from speaking ; you, the one man in all the world whom 
I wanted to speak ; but the others have seemed to pre- 
sume upon me with callous indifference that they as- 
sumed I also felt. Only yesterday one from whom — one 
who — it was only yesterday, last evening, that I was 
confronted by a proposition— Herbert, it decided me to 


3°6 


The Song and the Singer. 


explain all to you. I had watched you, wondering, 
yes, amused at first, for you never deceived me. I knew 
how you felt and I marveled at your restraint. The time 
came when I knew that I loved you, for that primarily, 
perhaps, but ah ! the joy of perceiving that with you 
there would be no sacrifice needed ! We will lay the 
world at our feet, you and I. You with your composi- 
tions, I singing them. The glory will be doubled. Does 
it not set you on fire to think of it ?” 

Impulsively and gracefully she knelt before him, rest- 
ing her arms upon his knees, and looking up into his 
face with eyes aglow. 

“See !” she said, “the prima donna kneels to you, the 
composer ; to you, the one man who has never affronted 
her with his love.” 


V. 

But in these nice sharp quillets of the law, 

Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw. 

— Shakespeare. 

It was indeed wonderful. Ordway thrilled at the 
spectacle of which he was a part, and laid his hands 
gently on hers; but all he said was, “I marvel at the 
steadfastness of your purpose/’ 

“Why should you?” she demanded, “you who are 
equally steadfast ? What you really marvel at is my in- 
genuity and my audacity. They were necessary to me. 
I have ever been in need of all the ingenuity I could 
command, and that,” here her face darkened again, 
“that was what disappointed me so in Billy. He has 
just the talent that could be most useful to me.” 

“Perhaps,” suggested Ordway, cautiously. “Billy 
might be induced to change his mind now.” 

“No!” she said decidedly, “I have done with Billy. 
He has cut my pride, for I had led him on. Oh, yes, 
Herbert,” as she noted his startled look, “I led Billy 
on deliberately from the first meeting with him in Box- 
ford. I felt his genius. He was a newspaper man, a 

critic, as I supposed, and therefore he had to be charmed. 

307 


3°8 


The Song and the Singer. 


Do you not see? It is, or was, a part of my career to 
charm by personal grace as well as by voice. The in- 
stant I saw his name and paper on his card I knew that 
here was a man to be won. It was so easy,” and she 
laughed a little. “An opportunity had arisen by which 
Billy might do a favor to a friend. He tried to conceal 
his real purpose from me, but he was transparent as 
glass. Of course I toyed with the matter a little, and 
of course I sang your piece ” 

It was Guarda’s turn to be startled, for Ordway 
dropped her hands and arose abruptly. 

“You said — I thought,” he stammered, “that the mu- 
sic won its own way.” 

“Why, so it did,” she cried, rising hastily and caress- 
ing his cheeks ; “but, don’t you see, that was good for- 
tune for both of us. You don’t doubt me, Herbert? 
Would I have sung your piece repeatedly and have 
asked you to compose for me if I did not have faith in 
your genius? Don’t you see that I am honest with 
you?” 

“Yes,” he admitted with extraordinary reluctance. “I 
see, but your words seemed to imply ” and he hesi- 

tated. 

“That I would have sung the aria in Boxford what- 
ever its merit or lack of it,” she concluded for him. 
“Yes, Herbert, the music would have had to be atro- 
cious if I declined to sing it, for Billy had to be put 
under obligation. That it proved to be not atrocious 
but divinely beautiful was a joyous surprise to me and 


The Song and the Singer. 309 

so fortunate for both of us. Don’t you think so, Her- 
bert, my lover?” 

He nodded absently. At the moment his thoughts 
and feelings were with Billy. She had led him on I 

Doubtless it was his palpable absence of mind that 
piqued her and drove her, in her inconsistent bitter- 
ness about Billy, to further revelation of her policy of 
man-snaring. 

“And after that there was still Billy, the clever news- 
paper man, the genius of audacity and invention. I 
wanted him, that is, his talents, at my command.” 

“Do you mean,” he interposed, frowning a little in 
spite of an effort to appear unmoved, “that you tried 
to make Billy fall in love with you?” 

“No,” said Guarda, and she pouted as might the ten- 
derest, most unsophisticated girl of your acquaintance. 
“Why should I ? That’s the man’s lookout, isn’t it ? It 
doesn’t seem to make any difference anyway. Men 
have fallen in love with me without let or hindrance 
from me. You did, Herbert.” 

How she dwelt upon his name ! In one breath it was 
as if she had always addressed him thus, in another as 
if there were a sense of security in it, as if thus she 
should hold him to her. Did the all-conquering Guarda 
have her doubts ? It may be. She had observed much, 
she thought much in her way, and she had admitted 
that this man before her was not like the rest. 

“Yes!” he cried in a sudden rush of emotion, and he 
drew her to him, “I did, and you did not seek me.” 


3io 


The Song and the Singer. 


“Not till I had to, dear,” and she gasped a little 
laugh that seemed to be all happiness. If there was a 
breath of relief in it, it escaped him. The influence was 
strong upon him, and he began to revel in it when a 
disturbing thought of an entirely new, even grotesque, 
kind cast a cloud upon his brow. Instantly Guarda, 
ever sensitive to surface manifestations, demanded to 
know what mattered with him. 

“I don’t know that it is anything,” he answered with 
great hesitation. “I have no real knowledge of law ” 

“I thought you had a great deal ” 

“Guarda !” and his tone was significant of danger ; 
“the law I obeyed was higher, I hope, than the stat- 
utes.” 

“Yes, I admired you for it,” she said faintly. 

“There is a phase of this odd device,” he went on, 
“that has its possibility of trouble or annoyance. I don’t 
know. Perhaps I am taking fright at a man of straw.” 

“That is what my supposed husband is.” 

“It may not be so in law.” 

Guarda was startled in earnest. “Why!” she ex- 
claimed, “what can you be thinking of?” 

“Newspaper paragraphs that I have happened to see, 
and explanations that Billy has made of them when I 
asked him.” 

“Billy doesn’t know everything.” 

“He knew his ground in this matter. You have in- 
troduced Giuseppe as your husband, have you not ?” 


The Song and the Singer. 31 1 

“Time and again. Fve had to. That was a neces- 
sary part of the device.” 

“Certainly ; but you have so introduced him in this 
State, have you not ?” 

“Surely ; a dozen times.” 

“Well,” said Ordway, soberly, “it is the law in this 
State that if a man introduces a woman as his wife, thus 
acknowledging her, she becomes his wife in law with- 
out religious or civil ceremony. I presume the same 
ruling would apply to a woman who introduced a man 
as her husband.” 

Guarda drew slowly back and sank into a chair. 

“The question,” Ordway continued relentlessly, for 
it was his mental habit to face a problem in all its bear- 
ings and seek rather than evade its difficulties, “the 
question is all the time arising in will contests, you 
know. There can be no doubt as to the law when it is 
the man who acknowledges the relationship. Common 
law wife, I believe, is the legal term applied to her. How 
the law would apply in this case I confess I have no clear 
idea.” 

“It is monstrous!” she exclaimed. 

He stood before her, brows knit, hands clasped be- 
hind his back. “All this may be extremely ridiculous,” 
he said, “but I am sure it should be thought of. I 
should hate to see you take a false step.” 

She laughed uncomfortably. “There is such a thing 
as divorce,” said she, “but divorce from Giuseppe ! How 
absurd !” 


312 The Song and the Singer. 

“Is the idea any more absurd than marriage with 
him?" 

“Yes, because ” she did not finish her thought, 

but broke forth with passion, “it should be such a simple 
thing as I had planned it. Nothing more than the dis- 
charge of a servant, a retirement of him to liberty and 
a pension. I cannot believe that I have run into any 
serious entanglement." 

“Perhaps not ; I certainly hope not. We can tell by 
consulting competent authority, and maybe we can sat- 
isfy ourselves now. Do you say that the secret is 
shared by no one ?" 

“Absolutely no one ; not even by my manager." 

“How about your maid?" 

“Elise? She knows nothing. She may suspect, for 
she is a remarkably keen person, but she has no knowl- 
edge of the facts." 

“She may have wheedled or badgered the truth from 
Giuseppe." 

“True, for she is sharp and persistent. But why do 
you ask about Elise ?" 

“Because her word might be useful if she were ac- 
quainted with the facts. Of course, you know, I am 
speculating, foolishly, perhaps." 

“I hope you are, Herbert." To her came a new 
thought, and she brightened, rising and going again 
close to him. “The law of New York, with its mon- 
strous eccentricities, will not apply elsewhere, in Eng- 
land, for example. Let us go there and get rid of Giu- 


The Song and the Singer. 313 

seppe according to my programme. Then we can be 
married, dear, and tell the newspapers all about it. 
What an advertisement ! There never was such a ro- 
mantic story in real life. Don’t you see ?” 

“Yes,” he answered, forcing a smile to avoid the wry 
face he must otherwise have pulled, “but we’ll agree to 
discuss that matter of advertising, won’t we?” 

“Oh, yes indeed! I shall expect you to have any 
number of brilliant ideas. Even if you are not invent- 
ive you ought to have acquired considerable facility 
from your contact with Billy. But,” and she turned 
from him before he could make one response or another, 
“I am curious to know whether Elise has divined the 
truth. And there can be nothing in your horrid law to 
prevent me from giving Giuseppe his warning now. His 
usefulness, if ever he had any, has departed, and I 
don’t want to see him around any longer. I will have 
them both in here and explain the case, kindly to Giu- 
seppe, of course, and I will see that Elise, whatever 
she has learned, keeps her faith with me.” 

Guarda touched a bell, and Ordway, feeling a sudden 
embarrassment at the suggestion of Elise’s presence, 
went to the pianoforte, where he made a pretence at 
looking over some music. 

“Elise,” said Guarda, when the girl came in, “is 
m’sieur in his room?” 

“Yes, madame. He went in an hour ago, saying that 
he was fatigued. It is the hour he sleeps.” 

“And it is about the time when he should be waked 


314 The Song and the Singer. 

to dress for dinner. He is doubtless rested by now. 
Call him, Elise.” 

“Yes, madame. Is it that he is to come here?” 

“Certainly, and, Elise, I wish you to return with him.” 

“Yes, madame.” 

The girl withdrew, and Guarda said, “I don’t believe 
she even suspects.” 

“I can’t help wishing a little that she knew,” said 
Ordway, uneasily. 

“Never mind, my thoughtful, pure hearted lover!” 
she cried, and again she sought his side and twined 
her arm about him. They stood thus for a moment. 
Then, the hardly audible voice of Elise: 

“Madame ! madame !” 

They turned, separating suddenly, but Elise was not 
in sight. The sound of her choking voice and her stum- 
bling steps came from beyond the door. Guarda hast- 
end toward it, but she had taken but three paces when 
the door was thrown open and Elise halted, pallor on 
her cheeks, terror in her eyes, upon the threshold. Her 
lips moved, but they merely framed the word 
“Madame,” and no sound save a gurgle issued. 

“Elise ! Girl !” cried Guarda ; “what is it ? Speak !” 

“Dead, madame,” Elise gasped with difficulty ; “m’sieu 
is dead!” 


VI. 


It is one of the strange decrees of fate that those 
who seem most to be needed are taken away. At 
the moment of his greatest usefulness to his coun- 
try a wise ruler is struck down by an assassin; a 
woman blessed with maternity, leaves her young; 
and meantime imbeciles encumber the highways. 
One needs be a philosopher to view these things 
with equanimity. 

— The Hermit. 

For one almost imperceptible instant Guarda stood 
motionless. Her back was to Ordway, and so he lost 
such expression of shock as may have crossed her brow, 
but when she turned and ran to him with wide open 
arms, her features manifested exultant delight unal- 
loyed by anything save tempestuous excitement. 

“Herbert!” she cried, “he is dead! There is noth- 
ing now to hinder.” 

She was in his arms, palpitant, eager, elated. She 
saw the awful gravity of his face, but she mistook the 
tears that came as far as his eyelids and were crowded 
back, for the manifestation of unutterable joy akin to 
her own. Ah, Guarda, you who were so keen of view 
in many respects, what pity, for your own sake, that 
you could not have penetrated a little deeper into the 

315 


3 1 6 


The Song and the Singer. 


soul of this man for whom you made a place in your 
scheme of vast ambition! It was a dangerous mental 
habit that of wilfully subordinating everything to your 
career. Thus triumphant careers are made, it is true, 
but at dismal sacrifices of things that you, aye, you, 
Guarda, were sensitive and refined enough to prize. 
You had fixed your imperious will upon this man’s 
love, and the habit of sweeping away every considera- 
tion that seemed to thwart your desires blinded you 
to the tragic fact that the tears in his eyes sprung im- 
pulsively to that unwonted verge because of grief over 
a breaking idol. All through this momentous scene, 
Guarda, you have been dealing blows against the idol 
that he had set up in your figure, and it may be that 
this was not the most crushing of them all ; but to him, 
with his inheritance, his quick perception of the fitness 
of things, which is a definition of right, it seemed no 
less than horrible to exult in the presence of death. And 
that it was you, his idol, who could so exult ! 

“Guarda,” said he, most unsteadily, “it may be death, 
and even then — but think, he may be in a swoon and 
needing help.” 

“But she has seen ; she says he is dead.” 

Not then, nor perhaps at any time, did the realiza- 
tion of his attitude come to her. Poor old Giuseppe 
had been transformed unexpectedly into a possible ob- 
stacle to her desires, and the obstacle had been removed. 
Why not rej oice ? 

“We must see for ourselves,” said Ordway, firmly 


The Song and the Singer. 317 

now, and she shrank from his arms as one withdraws 
unwittingly in the presence of a master. 

Elise was still trembling at the door, the frank pas- 
sion of her mistress not availing yet to shut out the 
horror of what she had seen in that distant room. Ord- 
way addressed her. “I have seen the name of Dr. Sin- 
clair on the building next north to this,” he said; “go 
to him as fast as you can and bring him. If he is not 
in notify the office and have a physician summoned in- 
stantly. Is it through these rooms?” 

“Yes, m’sieu, at the end of the suite,” and Elise went 
forth hurriedly without so much as a glance at her mis- 
tress to get her sanction to his command. 

Ordway hastened through the rooms, and Guarda 
followed him. It was not a pleasant spectacle they gazed 
upon. Giuseppe lay on his back on the bed, one foot 
on the floor. Jaws were parted and eyes staring. His 
sallow face was ashen. Guarda drew a gasping breath, 
but she went to the bedside and stood there while Ord- 
way felt the old man’s pulse, listened for heart beats, 
and made such other examination as lay within his ken 
to do. 

“I think it is all over with him,” he said at last. 

Hearing no response of any kind from Guarda, he 
turned apprehensively to her, but she was composed; 
her handkerchief pressed to her lips. It was merely 
inquiry that her eyes directed to him. 

“There is no need,” he said gently, “that you should 
be distressed with what must follow. I will see the 


318 The Song and the Singer. 

doctor and make all necessary arrangements. Shall I 
explain — that is, say that Giuseppe was your servant ?” 

He was leading her back to the parlor. 

“Do just what you think best, Herbert,” she an- 
swered, “but let there be no needless delay.” 

He inclined his head, and, having brought her to the 
door of her room, turned about at once and went back 
to the death chamber. Less than a minute passed 
when Elise opened the door for Dr. Sinclair. 

The physician made his tests and announced that 
Giuseppe was dead. “Heart failure, I suppose,” he said. 
Then he asked some perfunctory questions and went 
his way. Ordwav sought Elise. 

“Did you say he complained of fatigue?” he asked 
by way of opening a conversation that might involve 
delicate allusions. The girl had recovered remarkably 
from her shock. 

“No more than usual, m’sieu,” she answered glibly. 
“He was no giant, this Giuseppe. Madame has told me, 
m’sieu,” and she dropped him a pert courtesy as if to 
assure him that henceforth she looked to him for com- 
mands. 

Ordway clenched his teeth and held his breath for an 
instant. “Do you know whether he was a Roman Cath- 
olic?” he asked. 

“Yes, m’sieu, most devout.” 

“Very well; I have a friend who is a priest. I will 
go to him to arrange for the appropriate service.” 

“Pardon, m’sieu, but you are also to see the under- 


The Song and the Singer. 319 

taker, is it not? Madame said so.” 

“And she gave you a message for me ?” 

“Yes, m’sieu, if you would be so kind, tell the under- 
taker to remove the body to-night. It can wait quite 
well in his shop, is it not?” 

“I will attend to it. You may tell madame so.” 

“M’sieu goes now, then, but m’sieu will return as 
soon as all is arranged. Madame said she wished M’sieu 
Ordway to return.” 

He inclined his head gravely and went out. All the 
arrangements were made, including burial from church 
at ten o’clock of the following Saturday morning. Then 
Ordway gave some thought to himself. He was deeply 
troubled. During his calls upon the undertaker and 
the priest, he knew that trouble was with him ; now he 
sought to understand it, and the better to do so he 
went to his rooms. There had been a series of shocks 
to his finer sensibilities, and there had been a turbulence 
of emotion that should be associated with and attributed 
to love. He had supposed that love reciprocated meant 
happiness. 

“It must be so,” he said peremptorily to himself, and 
thrills were reawakened by recalling Guarda’s lavish ca- 
resses. “Genuine, deep love,” said he, “will make al- 
lowances. What authority have I to set up standards 
to which all others, Guarda included, must conform? 
Is it not the one reasonable and right thing to rejoice 
at this wonderful good fortune? The love of Guarda! 
How I have longed for it ! And it is mine ! mine ! That 


320 The Song and the Singer. 

is the matter to think of,” and thus persuading himself 
he went up to the home of himself and his struggles, 
of Billy and his struggles. 

Billy was there, sitting alone in the darkness, and it 
was not until Ordway struck a light that he saw his 
friend’s haggard face and wild eyes. 

“Ha! you here?” said Ordway, and again he was 
shocked, for, with all his experience he never had seen 
Billy looking like this. “What’s up? Waiting for me 
to go to dinner with you?” 

“No,” replied Billv, hoarsely, and with the tremu- 
lousness of suppressed excitement, “but I’ve been wait- 
ing for you to tell you about it. Thought you’d never 
come ! I had the lights up till I thought you might 
think I was afraid of the dark. I’m not. It’s all the 
same to me, light or dark, so long as there’s light 
enough to accomplish something worth while.” 

“See here, old man,” and Ordway was vaguely appre- 
hensive, for though he thought of the cause that usually 
lay back of Billy’s mental disturbances he could find 
nothing familiar in this manner of babbling, “there’s 
something wrong. What is it?” 

“I did it,” replied Billy, clenching his fists on his 
knees and staring with horrible intenseness. “It wasn’t 
wrong, but we won’t argue the matter. My opinion is 
as good as yours. The point is that I did it, and now 
you won’t have to hold aloof from Guarda any longer.” 

Ordway was speechless, enthralled with terrible fear. 
Billy laughed harshly. 


The Song and the Singer. 


3 21 


“You don’t understand it,” he went on. “Such a 
thing don’t come to a man’s mind all at once. It didn’t 
to mine, but it got there, and I did it — did it for you, 
old fellow — and now there’s no obstacle to your happi- 
ness. He’s out of the way ” 

“Billy!” gasped Ordway, leaping to his friend and 
shaking him in the mad hope of wrenching him from 
his trance. “Come to your senses, Billy! Don’t talk 
like that ! For God’s sake, be sensible !” 

“I am sensible. Take your hands otf, I tell you, and 
let me explain. It’s getting late, and I’ve got to hurry.” 

Ordway desisted, for this seemed rational. “Explain, 
then,” he said, “if there’s anything in this delirium that 
needs it.” 

“Well,” and Billy seemed to take a grip on his nerves, 
“I know you love Guarda. Don’t interrupt ! I loved 
her. That’s passed, for I was fool enough to insult her 
with a proposition that she rejected as she ought to. 
I didn’t forget that she was a married woman. I played 
on the chance that she didn’t care for that wreck who 
was bound to her. She doesn’t care for him. I believe 
she loves you. Anyhow, you have your opportunity 
now, for there’s no obstacle between you and her. I’ve 
been a worthless sot, Bert, but you can thank me for 
clearing your road.” 

It was impossible to listen longer. “Billy,” said 
Ordway, quaking again with fearful alarm, “is it possi- 
ble that you refer to Giuseppe Napoli?” 

“Yes; of course — Guarda’s husband.” 


3 22 


The Song and the Singer. 


“But he isn’t her husband, Billy.” 

“Isn’t her husband?” shouted Billy, starting up; then 
a ghastly smile came upon his face. “Right,” he added ; 
“wasn’t would be the word, for he’s dead.” 

“He wasn’t her husband, Billy.” 

“It’s a lie!” cried the crazed man. “I won’t have it 
so. I will have it that I accomplished something worth 
while. Listen, Bert. I’ll tell you. Don’t say be calm 
to me. This is no time for calmness, but I want to tell 
you that I did it in calmness. Thought it all out when 
I was sober. I haven’t touched a drop to-day. I went 
about holding myself back to gather strength for it, 
physical strength, understand, for my will didn’t waver, 
not once after I saw that it was the thing to do. It was 
at five o’clock ” 

“Five o’clock !” echoed Ordway, choking. 

“That was the hour. Chosen for me by fate, I sup- 
pose, for when I knocked and he didn’t answer, and I 
went in, I found him asleep. He was waiting for me ! 
Waiting with his throat bare for my hands ! A pistol 
may miss fire, you know, or a man may quiver and spoil 
his aim ; a knife may break at the handle, or strike a 
button and be deflected. Nature’s weapons were the 
best. I had thought it all out, and that was why I took 
hours to gather strength. I had it. If he had been a 
powerful young man I might have had to resort to 
artificial weapons, but he yielded to me as if he was 
only too glad to give up his useless life. It’s all right, 
Bert. It was the only way, and matters had come to 


The Song and the Singer. 


3 2 3 


such a pass with me that it was the only thing left that 
I could do for you. It isn’t every friend who would 
do as much ; but I’d do it again, and I am glad ! glad ! 
glad ! Good-bye.” 

His frenzy left him suddenly, and his voice choked 
as he held out his hand. Ordway took it and gripped 
hard. 

'‘Billy,” said he, fixing his friend’s eyes, “this horrible 
raving is incredible. I don’t believe a word ” 

“You don’t need to, then ! Call on her and she’ll tell 
you.” 

“Listen, Billy! You’re not going out. You’re not 
fit to work to-night.” 

“I’m not going to work. I’ve quit.” 

“Then you’ll stay here with all the more reason. I’ll 
bring you something from a drug store to make you 
sleep ” 

“I’ve got it,” cried Billy, frantic again, and beginning 
to try to loosen Ordway’s grasp. “I’m no fool, Bert. 
I’ve provided for all contingencies, I tell you. I’d rather 
you believed me. Will you when I use the plainest 
language? I tell you, old man, that for your sake I 
am a murderer! I killed old Napoli at five o’clock this 
afternoon !” 

Perspiration was glistening on Ordway’s brow, but 
still he clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on 
Billy’s arms. It was a maniac he wrestled with, and not 
all his country-bred strength was equal to the grievous 
task. Billy made a feint at yielding, then suddenly 


324 The Song and the Singer. 

wrenched one arm free and dealt Ordway a stunning 
blow between the eyes. Ordway staggered, tripped 
upon a book that had slipped to the floor, and fell. 
Billy gained his freedom and dashed for the door. As 
Ordway fell his face struck a sharp corner of the table, 
and blood went trickling down his cheek. 

“Billy ! Billy !” he called, in anguish, and stumbled to 
his feet to follow. He heard the reporter leaping down 
the stairs. Dizzy, reeling, Ordway caught at the ban- 
ister and fairly slid down the flights, but Billy gained 
on him, and when he issued from the door he saw his 
friend at the curb across the street. Billy had paused 
where the light from a street lamp was strongest. He 
was examining and opening a small parcel that he took 
from his pocket. 

Ordway called to him and ran, but before he was half 
way over Billy had carried his hand to his mouth and 
gulped down what he put there, the trifle that the drug 
clerk had demurred at selling without a prescription; 
and when Ordway came to him, he held out his hands 
in welcome. There was a wry smile on his face, for 
the dose was bitter; but it was a smile of infinite af- 
fection. 

“It’s all right now, Bert/' said he, in quite a rational 
way. “It’s down, and (shivering) getting in its work. 
I’m sorry you’re hurt, but it’s only skin deep. Mine 
is deeper. I had to hit you ” 

He began to tremble violently, and he offered no re- 



“ Cheer up, Billy !” he faltered. 


“We'll bring you out of it.” 

See page 325. 






The Song and the Singer. 


325 


sistance as Ordway took him in his arms and laid him 
down. Swiftly came a convulsive shudder. 

“Help ! help ! For God’s sake, help !” cried Ordway, 
with all his voice. 

“Help for yourself, Bert, if you need it,” gasped 
Billy. “I’ve no use for it ; but I’m glad you’re here, glad, 
old fellow, for there’s one thing more to tell you.” 

Another terrible shudder interrupted him, and after 
that he spoke incoherently. Men were running toward 
them from one place and another. 

“A doctor, quick !” said Ordway to the first who ar- 
rived, and the man dashed away. 

Billy’s lips were moving, and his eyes were fixed 
upon Ordway in lingering appeal. Ordway bent close. 

“Cheer up, Billy,” he faltered. “We’ll bring you out 
of it.” 

The reporter shook his head feebly, and, obeying the 
sign from his eyes, Ordway placed his ear to the dying 
man’s lips. He heard nothing comprehensible — the dis- 
connected wanderings of a mind setting forth on its 
long journey. 

“Pianoforte,” whispered Billy; “all contingencies — 
expenses — opus eighty-one.” 

The end came a moment later. Ordway, on his 
knees, had both arms around his friend. He was sob- 
bing hysterically. 


VII. 



— Beethoven, op. 81. 


“Isn’t there something more that we can do? We 
all liked him, Mr. Ordway. There are some other 
things that have to be done, you know.” 

It was kind-hearted Mrs. Brewer, the janitor’s wife, 
who thus aroused Ordway from the stupor in which he 
sat beside the pianoforte. An age had passed, some- 
what less than an hour by the clock, but an age, never- 
theless. Impulses of vital importance may have birth 
and death in an hour. In that brief space the current 
of a strong life may be changed, love may languish, hate 
spring to mature growth. A revolution may be ac- 
complished in sixty minutes. 

There had been the awe-stricken, gaping crowd ; but 
in it were friendly faces and helping hands. An ambu- 
lance, summoned by a well-meaning observer, had come 
on its fruitless errand, and gone. The janitor, trembling 
though he was with sincere grief, had acted with judg- 
ment and dispatch to the end that the legal formalities 
incident to the death of a man in the street were 

326 


The Song and the Singer. 327 

hastened, and Billy’s worn-out frame had been taken to 
his own chamber, where it now lay. Ordway had as- 
sisted physically, and when there seemed to be no more 
lifting and carrying to do he had sunk into his chair, 
motionless and silent. 

Mrs. Brewer’s question aroused him. 

“Yes,” he said, blankly at first, but in increasing firm- 
ness, “You have been very kind — yes, there are other 
things to do ; but, thank you, Mrs. Brewer, if you 
please, I prefer to do them.” 

She gave him a motherly look of compassion, and 
put her hand upon his arm. “It is too much for you,” 
she suggested ; “nobody will expect it of you. My hus- 
band will ” 

“Mrs. Brewer,” he interrupted, gently, “it is the last 
opportunity I have to do anything for Billy. I know 
you loved him, but you must let me have my way. I 
cannot bear to think of anybody else doing these neces- 
sary things. I will let you know — honestly, I will — if 
there is anything you can do for me.” 

So it was Ordway who visited the undertaker, his 
second call there that Thursday evening, and a clergy- 
man ; and who later went down to the office where Billy 
had been employed. Before he set forth on these 
errands, there was a terrible moment in his room. Mrs. 
Brewer had allowed herself to be dismissed, her husband 
had gone before her, and Ordway was alone. He was 
mechanically brushing his hat, that had been knocked 
off in his struggle with Billy, when his eye fell upon 


328 The Song and the Singer. 

his work table. There lay the full score of his aria, 
all the orchestral parts, the pianoforte transcription 
from which Guarda had learned it, the incompleted score 
for small band, and even the sheets on which he had 
written his first sketch. It was all there, every scrap 
that belonged to it, and all in methodical array as he 
had left it at the end of his day’s work upon it. His 
brows contracted, and there flashed in his eyes a fire 
that never before had burned there. Brush and hat 
were hastily laid aside. One stride took him to the 
table. He grasped the sheets that comprised the full 
score and crunched them in his hands as if he would 
tear them to shreds; and in that attitude he paused as 
if turned to stone. For many long seconds he stood 
thus, and the perspiration rolled from his brow. Drip, 
drip, it fell upon the paper he held. 

“Impulse ! mad impulse !” he muttered, at last, and 
laid the sheets down. “It will be better, mean more, 
with deliberation. It can wait.” 

From that moment, which left him with a startling 
sense of exhaustion, something that he intended to do 
served as a stimulus through all the mournful business 
he had to transact. His steps never lagged, but when 
grief and weariness of spirit seemed about to cast him 
prostrate, he said ever to himself, “Not yet. There is 
something to be done — a little thing, but it must be 
done, and it must not be the deed of mad impulse.” 

At the newspaper office, to his surprise and unspeak- 
able relief, he found that not a man to whom he told the 


The Song and the Singer. 329 

sad story was disposed to make it a matter of news. 
Of course, he did not tell the whole story. That Mr. 
Jameson had died suddenly he had meant to be the limit 
of his information ; but it proved impossible to keep 
from these shocked and sympathetic men that it was a 
case of suicide. Word went round the busy room 
quickly, and every man left his desk to gather at the 
gate and listen to the few questions and answers that 
passed between Ordway and the night editor. They 
were quick — ah ! so quick — with not only expressions 
of compassion, but with offers of assistance. They 
would do everything, take charge of the arrangements ; 
and Ordway, choking, held up his hand. 

“I hope you’ll pardon me, gentlemen,” he said; “but 
I feel that this is my private affair — mine and Billy’s. 
I recognize your interest and rights, and have done 
the best I knew how to adapt the arrangements to them. 
I told the clergyman that such simple service as he 
might deem appropriate would be held where we lived 
together at eleven o’clock on Saturday morning. I 
thought that would come as near to an off hour for you 
gentlemen as could be chosen.” 

From the newspaper office Ordway went back to his 
rooms. Mrs. Brewer was on the watch for him, but 
he would have called on her. He had a favor to ask. 
Yes, he would drink a cup of tea. He did not tell 
her so, but he remembered then that he had not been 
to dinner. The good woman knew what was wise for 
him; that care must be given to the living, and that 


330 


The Song and the Singer. 


by gross means, no matter how the wounded spirit 
might shrink from so selfish a thing as food. She said 
nothing, but she placed food before him, and he ate. 
Thus refreshed, he was conscious of a profounder calm- 
ness than he had felt before. Then he asked his favor. 
He would like to put something on the furnace fire. 

“To be sure!” said Mrs. Brewer; and though she 
wondered, she asked no question, but bustled forth to 
call her husband. The janitor came in. 

‘Til burn up anything you like, Mr. Ordway,” said 
he. “Have you got it with you?” 

“It’s in my room. I’ll bring it down ; but I want to 
put it on the fire myself.” 

“Certainly, sir,” and the janitor and his wife looked . 
at each other and shook their heads while Ordway was 
gone. He returned with an armful of music paper — 
his aria, scores, parts and sketches, every scrap that 
belonged to it. Down in the basement, the janitor look- 
ing wonderitigly on, he placed the sheets one at a time 
on the flames; and when the last had roared itself to 
creckling ash, he said, “Thank you,” quietly, and went 
back to his room. 

It was time to rest, but not in bed. He sat at his 
table and looked sombrely about the room. His friend 
had been there very little with him, but Billy seemed 
to be a part of every inch of it. A long time passed — 
much more than an hour — but it was not an age ; merely 
the fractional beginning of one. At last — he had been 
looking fixedly at the pianoforte without seeing it — he 


The Song- and the Singer. 


33i 


began to muse on those last incoherent words of Billy’s. 
“Pianoforte — all contingencies — expenses — opus eighty- 
one.” Had there been some meaning in that? Could 
the blanks be filled in with words that would connect 
them rationally? He stood up to look at the instru- 
ment more closely. There was a bound volume of 
Beethoven’s sonatas lying on the cover, and, instantly 
he saw it, the partial significance of Billy’s words flashed 
upon him and drew a sob to his throat. Opus eighty- 
one — the “Farewell” sonata. But it was not until Ord- 
way had opened the volume to read silently through 
that exquisite first movement that he understood all that 
Billy had tried to say. 

Pinned to the first page of that sonata were two bank 
notes, one for fifty dollars, the other for ten. The pin 
also held in place a scrap of paper, on which was 
written : 

“Keep within this, old fellow; it’s more than Pm 
worth. Billy.” 


VIII. 


Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, 

Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned. 

— William Congreve. 

An eager desire possessed Ordway on the morning 
following. It seemed that there might be one more 
possible thing that he could do for Billy. The matter 
could not be worse than it was ; it might be better. 
With this in view, feverishly hopeful, aching with ap- 
prehension, he called on Dr. Sinclair. The physician 
recognized him. 

“Doctor/’ said he, “I understood you to say that 
Napoli’s death was to be attributed to heart failure.” 

“It is the most natural supposition,” the doctor re- 
sponded, “from the man’s evident age, and from the 
fact that there was no evidence of other organic diffi- 
culty or acute disease.” 

“Is no other supposition possible?” 

The physician looked his visitor gravely in the eyes 
for a moment. “For instance?” he asked. 

“Violence,” said Ordway. 

An anxious pause followed. “My examination,” said 
Dr. Sinclair, “was directed to little more than determin- 
ing that life was extinct. If you had any suspicions you 
should have spoken of them at the time.” 

332 


333 


The Song and the Singer. 

“I had none, doctor — I have none now ; but I cannot 
tell you how anxious I am to be assured that the man’s 
death was wholly due to natural causes.” 

“A post-mortem would likely show whether poison- 
ing had taken place ” 

“There was no poisoning, Dr. Sinclair.” 

“You speak very positively, sir, while you suggest the 
most serious possibilities. Better be frank with me. 
As it is, you have insinuated so much that I am not 
inclined to let the matter pass without further ex- 
amination.” 

“That is just what I want, doctor. I will be as frank 
as is necessary.” 

“I don’t like the implied qualification in your answer. 
What evidence of unnatural death do you want me to 
look for?” 

“Strangulation.” 

The doctor arched his brows and appeared to be 
deeply disturbed. “I do not think I could have failed 
to notice anything of that sort,” he said. “Will you 
go with me at once?” 

In short order they were at the undertaker’s, and the 
doctor applied himself with professional thoroughness 
to his grewsome task. At last he stood up, and Ord- 
way nerved himself for the verdict. 

“There was no strangulation,” said the doctor. 
“Nothing could be more certain that that.” 

“Thank God !” gasped Ordway. 

The restraint he had been exercising gave way per- 


334 


The Song and the Singer. 


ceptibly, and he appeared more deeply agitated than 
at any previous moment. 

“You feared that there had been crime,” said the 
doctor, directly. “It was not the crime you suggested. 
Do you think of any other way?” 

“No; it was this way, or the whole thing was a delu- 
sion.” 

“You’d better explain that, Mr. Ordway. To me 
alone, you understand. I have a right now to be 
wholly satisfied.” 

“Yes, doctor,” and Ordway thought a moment. “I 
will put a hypothetical question,” he resumed, “and if 
it does not satisfy you, perhaps I will consent to be 
more specific. Suppose a man whose mind was dis- 
ordered had entered Napoli’s room subsequent to his 
death; suppose this man had seen that Napoli was dead. 
Is it not possible that he would go away under the im- 
pression that he had killed him ?” 

“Possible, certainly,” replied the doctor, without hesi- 
tation. “Anything is possible in the way of delusions. 
I should say that if this hypothetical man already had 
the delusion that the deceased was his enemy ” 

“Yes,” said Ordway, eagerly; “that was the case.” 

“Then the most probable result would be that the 
man would imagine that he had killed the deceased. 
He might even have gone through the motions, you 
know — put his hands to the dead man’s throat ” 

“I won’t think it !” 

“I wouldn’t if it distresses you. There’s no evidence 


The Song and the Singer. 


335 


that Napoli was touched subsequent to his death from 
heart failure.” 

'Then are you satisfied, doctor ?” 

'That there was no crime? Yes; and if you don’t 
care to volunteer anything further, I will ask no ques- 
tions.” 

Ordway begged the physician’s indulgence, and they 
separated without further discussion, the inquirer so 
profoundly relieved that he was almost happy. 

When Saturday morning came, and neither postman 
nor messenger brought any word from Ordway, Guarda 
was sorely troubled. The doubts as to the complete- 
ness of her conquest, that had surprised her during her 
memorable scene with the composer, returned to de- 
press and irritate her. She had heard from him in- 
directly. A man from the undertaker’s had called and 
told Elise about the funeral arrangements. The maid’s 
frank pumping had elicited the information that the 
man had been sent at Ordway’s request. Guarda won- 
dered if Ordway stayed away because of some strange 
sentiment incomprehensible to less sensitive mortals? 
It seemed to her that his place was at her side. There 
was no occasion for mourning ; it did not seem that the 
most finical taste could demand any marked departure 
from ordinary demeanor; but Ordway was — Ordway, 
and that meant that there could be no certainty as to 
what that absurd but wholly noble young man would 
do or think. 

It might lie within his view of duty and propriety to 


336 


The Song and the Singer. 


attend Giuseppe’s funeral. In all probability he would 
be pained if he did attend and did not see herself there. 
Therefore, Guarda put on her most sombre apparel and 
drove to the church with Elise. They were the only 
living persons present save the priest and his acolytes, 
and the men from the undertaker’s. With growing 
anxiety, Guarda witnessed the last solemn rites for the 
man whose timely exit had given her such a spasm of 
joy. When the ceremony was over she sent Elise in a 
hired carriage to follow the body to the grave, and 
herself drove to Ordway’s apartments. She had the 
carriage stop before turning into his street, and told 
her man to wait for her there. Thence she proceeded 
on foot, and when she had rounded the corner she 
stopped short, her heart in her mouth. 

Drawn up in front of an apartment house a few rods 
distant was a hearse, and behind it a number of car- 
riages. Guarda never had been there, but she knew 
that that must be the house where Ordway lived. At 
this moment some men were bearing a coffin from the 
door to the hearse. There was a group of women and 
children on the sidewalk. Guarda hastily lowered her 
veil, and, trembling so that she walked with difficulty, 
drew near and joined the group. Presently she saw 
Ordway among the bearers, and while she choked with 
relief, apprehension hardly less tense than at first caused 
her to clutch at a railing with one hand and press the 
other to her lips. She did not know, and there was 
nobody to tell her, that next to Ordway stood the city 


The Song and the Singer. 


337 


editor; that behind him was the night editor; that the 
managing editor himself was one of the bearers; and 
that the men who issued slowly from the house and 
took places in the waiting carriages comprised sub- 
stantially the entire staff of Billy Jameson’s paper. 

She saw as in a dreadful dream, and not till the pro- 
cession had left the street could she stir from the spot 
and return to her carriage. 

At home, she waited in agony for the return of Elise, 
whom she dispatched forthwith upon errands of in- 
quiry ; and when the girl came back from these she 
brought information that merely confirmed Guarda’s 
supposition. Much, then, was explained ; but what was 
to follow? Guarda paced her parlor until she was 
physically tired. Then she sat at her desk and wrote. 
Her first attempt displeased her, and she destroyed it. 
What would be best calculated to draw him to her? 
Should she confess knowledge of the grievous facts and 
express herself accordingly? Or should she play upon 
that grand passion that she had seen him hold in such 
valiant restraint? 

In the end she wrote the following: 

“My true, tender hearted lover: — For the first time 
in my life, I have known what it is to be lonely. Every 
hour without you now is an eternity. L seems as if we 
had always loved each other, and yet it is so new! I 
hardly know which gives me the greater joy — the 
thought that in you I have a lover who is steadfastness 
itself, or the sweet memory of your lips and the protect- 
ing pressure of your arms. 1 think of the future with 
tranquil, perfect security, for my faith is in you. I look 


338 The Song and the Singer. 

back upon that heavenly hour when we opened our 
hearts, and marvel that a woman can know such in- 
finite, such overwhelming joy. One day I said, Tt was 
only yesterday;' then, ‘it was only the day before yes^ 
terday;' and now, so many eternities are comprised in 
the few hours that have passed ! And yet I am still 
quivering with the joy of it and the anticipation of the 
morrow when you will surely come again. I know not 
how to tell you my love. Believing in myself, as I do 
so frankly, I cannot think that ever woman loved as I 
do ; and all my love I lay at your feet, knowing that you 
are worthy a thousandfold more and deeper love, and 
that you will treasure this greatest gift that I can make 
to you through all the eternities of hours that are yet 
to come. Henceforth my heart will be your home, 
your resting place, your refuge from all that may weary 
or sadden you. And so, loyal lover mine, believe that 
all I have and am is yours. Guarda." 

Late in the afternoon Elise took this to Ordway’s 
rooms. He was not at home, and, under instructions 
from her mistress, she waited at the door till she saw 
him wearily turning the corner. Then she tripped up 
the stairs and down again in time to meet him as he 
began to ascend, 

“From ma’m’selle Guarda, m’sieur," she said. 

■ He took the letter, and, to her consternation, opened 
and read it where he stood. 

“Tell your mistress," said he, “that it was my inten- 
tion to call upon her_to-morrow at three. I shall hope 
to find her disengaged at that hour." 

He went on up the stairs, leaving the girl so amazed 
that it was a full minute before she bethought herself 
and departed. Elise did not report the facts to Guarda. 
There was too much suggested tragedy in the air for 


The Song and the Singer. 


339 


that. Elise was mystified and insanely curious to see 
how it would all come out. 

“Dame!” she muttered. “What am I that I should 
try to influence it? He is very sad, but he cannot be 
indifferent — not to her. I dare not tell her anything 
to suggest such a monstrous thing. Let her find it out 
if she must, and if she cannot manage him. We shall 
see.” 

So Elise told Guarda that Ordway had wept when 
he read the letter, and that his voice choked when he 
gave the answering message ; and her lively fancy even 
stimulated her to declare that he kissed the paper till 
one might well doubt whether a word of it could be 
read. Guarda believed her. 

There was choir rehearsal that evening, and service 
the following forenoon. Between whiles, Ordway had 
ample time for the meditation that accorded with his 
habit. He came to certain important conclusions — 
foremost that, aside from the influence of all immediate 
events, there was fundamental incompatibility between 
Guarda’s temperament and his own. Her overweening 
ambition, with its incident craving for publicity, was a 
menace to any who bound his life to hers. She, herself, 
had demonstrated this. How glad had been that cry 
of hers that love for him demanded no sacrifice. The 
ideal love of which he had dreamed would have joyed 
in opportunity for sacrifice. He would not question 
her love ; he allowed that it was genuine of its kind ; but 
he saw now that at basis it was selfish, and that her 


340 


The Song and the Singer. 


life and every separate act were dominated still by that 
crushing sentiment with which she set out upon her 
career. Nothing should stand in its way. With him- 
self ever at her side, she would find presently that his 
acute sensibilities were in her way to the extent, at 
least, that they interfered with and irritated her. She 
might be right ; let it be so in argument. The two nat- 
ures could not be assimilated. ] 

There was conscious pride in Ordway’s heart when 
he found that he could bring himself to this view of the 
matter. It was so much better than to be swayed by 
mad impulse. If he had not kept the habitual check 
upon himself he might have rushed from Billy’s death 
scene to curse her and bring their relations to end with 
all the dramatic fury that hate could inspire. It was 
much better to be judicially deliberate — aye, to make 
allowances for her and tell her gently and with all com- 
posure that he had been mistaken in thinking he loved 
her; that he had loved an imaginary woman whose 
features she had assumed; that her voice and art had 
beguiled him into a passion that could not endure rude 
shocks, and that for her own sake it would be better 
to forget him speedily. Such Was his programme. It 
was much better than any unrestrained outburst of pas- 
sion, and it gave him consciousness of superiority to the 
ordinary run of men that was not without its influence. 

He had fixed upon Sunday afternoon because then all 
would be over so far as Billy was concerned. Having 
established his programme, he saw no reason to modify 


The Song and the Singer. 


34i 


it even when he read Guarda’s appeal to passion and 
pride. She reminded him of delirious kisses, and he 
loathed the memory; she staked her confident faith 
upon his steadfastness, and he perceived that her error 
lay in not realizing what it was to which he was stead- 
fast — himself. Comprised in that apparently selfish 
word were his ideals, his sensibilities, his inheritance of 
character, and his long-established affections. 

On this occasion, quite as usual, Ordway sent up his 
card and waited to be summoned. He was more than 
ever punctilious. In the elevator he repeated silently 
the phrases with which he had arranged to begin the 
unpleasant but necessary conversation. It should be 
long enough to cover the ground, but it should not be 
unduly drawn out to the pain of both of them. 

She stood at the pianoforte when he opened the door. 
The light was strong upon her, as if a portrait painter 
had posed her there. A lovely picture she made for a 
first, brief glimpse — brief because she started forward 
with arms extended. Midway of the room, she halted 
abruptly, startled by the extraordinary change that had 
come upon her visitor. His grave face had grown sud- 
denly livid ; one hand was raised in repellent, command- 
ing gesture. 

“You killed him 1” he exclaimed. 

“Herbert l” 

There was infinite shock in the tone, sudden despair 
and something akin to terror in her eyes. 

“Yes, you !” he went on. “I make no apology for his 


342 The Song and the Singer. 

weaknesses and his mistakes, and I grant you no ex- 
tenuation for them. You led him on. You told me so. 
I have lost the one true friend of my life, and you 
robbed me of him.” 

One fierce flash darted from her eyes while he spoke, 
and then she caught her breath. She was under her 
own command at the end. 

“My unhappy friend,” she said, softly, “you are suf- 
fering and sorrowing deeply. I have heard of it. I 
wanted to go to you, but I thought you would come 
here for comfort.” 

She stretched her arms again, for he seemed to be 
wavering. In truth, he himself was shocked at what 
he had said, and the hot burst of passion left him for 
the instant exhausted. Recovery was quick upon her 
gesture. 

“Don’t come near me,” he said, in a low tone, and 
hastily. “Don’t try me too far. I did not come here 
to say what I have said. God knows how far hate 
might take me.” 

“Hate, Herbert?” 

“Hate! I thought it was philosophy. I thought I 
could be calm in your presence. I cannot. I meant to 
spare you as much as possible. I was making allow- 
ances for you. God in heaven ! can you not understand 
that I am like other men, with ” 

Guarda interrupted with a rippling laugh. 

“A most conventional, ordinary man !” said she. “Go 
on, do ! It is an amusing finale.” 


The Song and the Singer. 


343 


He was astounded, incredulous ; but there she stood, 
laughing, superior, contemptuous. 

“Pray do not spare me,” she continued. “I must 
have seemed quite ridiculous, but I had to make my 
experiment. It is thus that an actress gains facility in 
emotions, you know, Mr. Ordway — thus that she can 
become great. I shall remember this scene. As for 
your unfortunate friend, do not think for a moment that 
I take you seriously. A woman who charged her con- 
science with the follies of her men friends would be in 
a sorry pass. Oh, dear, yes ! Of course this had to 
come some time — that is what you intended to say with 
your philosophy and allowances, which I don’t need in 
the least, thank you. As I cannot be accountable for 
the follies of the men who come my way, so I cannot 
always arrange my affairs to a precise programme. 
You see, I had rather thought that the break might 
be postponed till I felt the time ripe to let you know 
that I have been cognizant all along of your trickery/' 

Ordway was listening as if he were numb. He could 
not understand this change in her demeanor and ap- 
parent revolution in her mood. Her innuendo aroused 
him. 

“Trickery!” he repeated. “What do you charge me 
with?” 

“Why, the theft of my aria at Boxford. I have long 
perceived that you were the inspiring genius of that 
audacity. Your friend Billy was the instrument, and 
a clever one ” 


344 


The Song and the Singer. 


“Do you mean to say that Billy stole your music?” 

“Of course! How else would he have been able to 
substitute your piece ? Don’t tell me that you were not 
cognizant of the circumstances, for I shall not believe 
you. I have lost all interest in the matter. You may 
remember that I returned your precious piece to you.” 

“That a reduced score might be made.” 

“Oh, no ! to be rid of it. I did think that possibly you 
might be inspired to the composition of something 
worth while; but,” she shrugged her shoulders and 
turned languidly to a window; “it has been a passably 
interesting experiment,” she added. 

He stood stock still for a moment, and then left the 
room. It was not for him to see what prying Elise 
managed to observe from a slightly opened door — how 
Guarda, as soon as he had gone, clenched both hands 
above her head, trembled, and then sank face down 
upon a couch. It was not for him to suspect the tumult 
of disappointment so nearly akin to despair that raged 
within her as she saw one dear prize of life slip from 
her grasp. 

To him, as he left the hotel, it seemed as if the ropes 
had broken and the curtain had fallen on his fifth act 
with a smash ; and he wished that his head were under 
the heavy pole. 


CODA. 

I. 

A strong man does not give himself time to be sorry. 

— The Hermit. 

We were at some pains to note the chronological de- 
tails of that crisis in which Ordway was deeply con- 
cerned. Now comes a period in which time no longer 
counts. One day is like another. To-day is the repeti- 
tion of yesterday, the model for to-morrow. All are 
filled to repletion with work. 

Ordway was never without something to do. There 
were compositions to be completed, not because of ex- 
ternal demand, but to satisfy the inner compulsion that, 
having conceived them, cannot rest until they are 
brought forth in perfect form. He set himself to finish 
a sonata movement begun in the early winter, and laid 
aside because matters of immediate consequence re- 
quired attention. In this his work was analogous to 
that of the carpenter rather than that of the architect. 
His materials — that is, his themes — were before him ; it 
was not a question of the creation of new materials, but 
of putting them together according to the demands of a 

prearranged form. Hardly had he begun upon this ex- 

345 


346 


The Song and the Singer. 


acting task — it was indeed on the very evening following 
his break with Guarda — when his pen halted. There 
was a knocking at the door of his inmost consciousness, 
a knocking that gathered strength and insistence as he 
refused to open; but this door of the musician’s spirit 
is transparent, and through it he saw his unbidden 
visitor and knew that beauty stood there, fresh, attrac- 
tive, smiling in the confidence of winsomeness. 

“No !” said Ordway, silently, “this is no time for you. 
Your coming now is profanation to the grief that dwells 
here. Begone !” 

But beauty smiled, knocked louder and more insist- 
ently, and, while he frowned in vain resistance, in she 
came, defiant of barriers and overstepping them. Hu- 
miliated and yet enthralled, the composer must needs 
take a clean sheet of paper and set his pen in motion 
upon it to be rid of her ; and presently he was absorbed 
in the creation of music that up to that hour never had 
been. The door was wide open now, for he could not 
shut it, and in trooped a host of unbidden guests. He 
bowed his head in deep abasement, yet did their bidding ; 
he hugged his grief to his aching heart in dreadful terror 
lest this that upheld the wreck of his egotism and pride 
should be displaced by these fair strangers, and they sat 
with him, smiling still and driving him to work, and 
never once seeking, not one of them, to displace grief 
or flout it. 

The gas jets above him were sickly in the gray dawn, 
when at last, in sheer fatigue, he dropped his pen, and it 


The Song 1 and the Singer. 347 

seemed as if the unbidden guests themselves closed the 
door in kindliness to keep out any others. 

Ordway was amazed and humiliated when he awoke 
and thought about it. Was it not some vivid delusion? 
Half dressed, he went into his work room and looked 
over the freshly written sheets on the table. He sat at 
the instrument and gave the symbols vibrant life. It 
was more than true. All this was beautiful, and well 
he knew that the undiscriminating would likely regard 
these melodies as songs of joy. What could it mean? 
Had he not suffered deeply? and did he not sorrow still? 
Aye, but he had come to a profound distrust of himself, 
based upon what he regarded as the incorrigible fickle- 
ness of his nature. For a time he had battled with what 
he believed to be undying love for Guarda ; came a temp- 
est, and, puff ! out went the flame as completely as if it 
never had burned. Not a cinder was left to glow in 
the darkness of his soul ; the ashes were cold as death 
itself. 

Some days and nights followed in much the same 
way, the hot routine of composition broken only by 
duties little less absorbing — his teaching and choir work. 
Then came a tenor singer of renown. He brought 
verses, gay, jubilant songs of love. Would Mr. Ordway 
set them to music for him? Mr. Ordway’s song cycle, 
that had been given by Madame Guarda with such 
brilliant success, had opened the eyes of a good many 
vocalists to his genius. The tenor would be very glad 


348 


The Song and the Singer. 


to commission the composition of a group, if Mr. Ord- 
way would undertake the work. 

It was true, as the flattering visitor said, that Guarda’s 
recitals had “made” Ordway’s songs. Doubtless she 
never would sing them again, but the impetus had been 
given before the break came ; other singers were taking 
them up, and the public was buying. 

The composer looked over the verses and shrank 
from them. Their spirit was counter to everything in 
his present condition. It was abominable that songs of 
joy should be looked for from him at this period, and 
yet, even as he gazed moodily at one of the poems, the 
first line began to hum in his brain, his fancy leaped 
over the intervening lines to the last, and he perceived 
a thrilling climax 

“I'll do them,” he said abruptly; “Til send for you in 
a few days to try them over.” 

And not long afterward he forgot his shame in the 
fever of creation. In the very heat of his work, when 
his imagination not only glowed with melody but looked 
forward to the reward of appreciation, hope for which 
is inseparable from composition, he said, or thought it 
so intently that he seemed to say, “Billy will be mightily 
pleased at this.” 

His pen dropped, and he sat back in his chair, deeply 
shocked. How long had it been in his subconsciousness 
that he would tell Billy the glad news ? and that meant, 
how long had he forgotten Billy and the grief that gave 
him some shred of confidence in his stability? It was 


The Song and the Singer. 


349 


with painful difficulty that he brought himself to a 
realization that the thought of Billy at this juncture pro- 
ceeded from habit, and that the manifestation of the 
habit was a sure testimony to his loyal affection for his 
friend ; and it was not until he had reasoned himself to a 
perception of this truth that he could go on and finish 
the songs. 

If we were to follow him closely through the tortuous 
channels of his morbid reflections, running upon every 
snag of self-depreciation, sheering from the truth when- 
ever it appeared to view, holding up his self-distrust to 
the slowly brightening light, we should turn this account 
of his beginnings into a metaphysical treatise, and that 
is foreign to the purpose. But to a satisfactory compre- 
hension of his career it is necessary that there should be 
this brief indication of his thoughts’ complexion. It 
would not be expected of Ordway that grief and disap- 
pointment would drive him to any form of dissipation; 
that he plunged into absorbing work might, perhaps, 
have gone without saying ; but he suffered deeply, and in 
Stygian darkness, and wrought his way to the light 
through the silent conflicts within him. 

It may not be amiss to suggest briefly some of the 
conclusions, instantly patent doubtless to many, to 
which he arrived only after long months of inward 
struggle. That love, an army of romantic novelists to 
the contrary notwithstanding, is a state of being that is 
born with the individual, and is as eternal as he is ; it is 
not created by the object upon which it fixes itself, but 


350 


The Song and the Singer. 


exists irrespective of it, seeking ever that object that 
approximates most closely to its ideal. When such an 
object seems to appear, there is a mighty awakening of 
love, and it bestirs itself so amazingly that the victim — 
how proper is the term from this point of view ! — is led 
easily to believe that the ideal itself has been discovered. 
Let the revelation of the error come in season, or out 
of season, and it is not love that dies ; it is the deluding 
excitement that subsides with the destruction of the 
supposed ideal. Love endures, and when it is a state 
of a strong, pure nature, happy may that person be who 
rearouses it. For, and it was long, long afterward that 
this conclusion came to Ordway, love learns to discrim- 
inate between the lovable features of an object and that 
object’s necessary human limitations; it cultivates the 
former and clings to them, and it tolerates or sturdily 
ignores the latter. Then, the delirium of early love hav- 
ing passed, that condition that for ages has been so aptly 
described as love sickness , your true lover becomes the 
steadfast, tender protector; in other words, a sane, ad- 
mirable man — and the world ceases to have any interest 
in him. 

One other conclusion, to which he came much more 
speedily, and that, this author has found, is by no means 
commonly accepted by those who do not know. With 
regard to his fecundity as a composer during this period 
when one might suppose the creative faculty would be 
under a dense cloud of depression. Music is a product 
of the mind, and its intellectual side is of incalculable 


The Song and the Singer. 


35i 


importance ; but it has its origin in the mysteries of the 
emotions which, at the last analysis, are one ; that is, any 
emotion may be analyzed as the individual manifestation 
of fundamental capacity for feeling. It only requires 
that that fundamental capacity should be deeply stirred 
to bring a manifestation of emotion, and if the person 
under consideration is one whose nature is attuned to 
music, he must of necessity give forth music as the 
result of the disturbance. As music is abstract, not you, 
or I, would be competent to state whether it came from 
the mind of a composer as utterance of joy or grief. It 
might appeal to you as grief, to me as joy. Moreover, 
the closest observers of musicians’ lives have noted that 
the poet who wrote, “I am saddest when I sing,” ex- 
pressed a great truth ; and the songs of sadness are 
by no means all in the minor key. 

Ordway’s career was shaping well. Men looked upon 
him as successful, and congratulated him. Pupils ap- 
plied to him in such numbers that he had little save the 
night time for composition. One day the mail brought 
a communication from his publisher, and he learned the 
meaning of the word royalty. He wrote to his mother 
about all these things, but, oh ! to tell Billy ! that eager 
desire never departed. 

Spring was advancing when his material progress 
reached a climax in the shape of an offer from a fashion- 
able church to become its organist. The salary was 
much greater than that he had been receiving, and there 
was certain other compensation of more importance at 


352 The Song and the Singer. 

the time, although he did not realize it. The congrega- 
tion was one of those that disperses early to exercise 
its piety in Newport, Europe, and other places, leaving 
the home church with nothing to do for several months 
but keep cool and gather strength for another harvest 
of souls in the winter, there being, presumably, no souls 
in the city worth saving in summer. It had not been so 
with Ordway’s first church. That was an organization 
of simple minded persons who waged incessant battle 
with sin, and he had had to keep the hymns going fifty- 
two Sundays in the year. To have a long vacation on 
pay was, then, not only a step in advance, but well nigh 
a necessity, for the persistence with which the composer 
occupied every hour of his waking time in hard work 
had more than begun to tell on him. 

As a matter of course he went to East Wilton when 
the doors of the church were closed, for he had at that 
time no ambition to travel, and, from his point of view, 
insufficient means to justify an expensive holiday. In 
truth, too, he longed for the familiar quiet of the old 
home, and for days after he arrived he hardly stirred 
from the house. The prosaic but wholesome fact is 
that he slept most of the time. He went to bed early 
and arose late; he nodded uncomprehendingly over a 
book until it fell from his hands; and after the midday 
dinner he stretched himself shamelessly on the old fash- 
ioned lounge in the parlor, having neither desire nor 
energy to go out of doors. Ordway was getting well. 
He had been a sick man and did not know it. 


The Song and the Singer. 353 

On Sunday he went to church with his mother, and 
found a singular satisfaction in sitting in the quaint, old 
pew that had not known his presence since he was a boy ; 
for he had graduated early to the organ loft at the back 
and remained there till he went to the city in quest of 
fame and fortune. It was very restful, this hard backed 
pew, with its worn cushion, its plain footstool, and the 
rack with its two dog-eared hymn books. Restful and 
surcharged with reminiscences. How comical now 
seemed those tragedies that sometimes had been taken 
with him to meeting in the old days ! His breast heaved 
as he thought of the grief wasted at a time when he 
could hardly see the minister over the back of the pew 
in front, and then he pulled his moustache nervously to 
repress a smile, for he had caught sight of the clock over 
the pulpit. Ah ! how he had studied that clock ! His 
years were very tender when patient observation had 
taught him that the dominie was good for an average 
of forty minutes. The first part of the service was wholly 
endurable, for there was music in it, and a good deal of 
getting up and sitting down, variety that is mightily 
grateful to short legs that dangle over a pew edge. The 
sermon — well, with all respect to the place and the good 
dominie, be it said that the sermon was endurable, be- 
cause it had an amen to it when the forty minutes were 
up. Ordway’s unholy smile arose from the recollection 
of the Sunday remote in his history when the sermon 
began at twenty-five minutes after eleven. That was a 
little later than usual, the dominie having overstepped 


354 


The Song and the Singer. 


his limits in the prayer, and one of the hymns having 
had five long stanzas. This was creepily portentous of 
a longer discourse than usual, but the boy counted along 
the dial and made sure that if the dominie only would 
hold himself down to his average the amen was due at 
five minutes after twelve. Firstly, secondly, and, eke, 
thirdly, went by in good order, none too long dwelt 
upon, and the minute hand was at nine. Half the allow- 
ance was up. The second half was always the longer, 
but it could be fought through stubbornly by taking 
account of every two minutes instead of every five. 
“Twenty minutes more, eighteen minutes more, sixteen 
minutes more,” it was thus that the small boy kept 
track of the earnest party up in the pulpit. “Fifthly,” 
said the minister, and the boy’s heart all but ceased to 
beat. The minute hand was at ten, where it had been 
at least a long minute ago ! On went the preacher, but 
the minute hand stayed obstinately where it was. Good- 
ness me ! the clock had stopped, and there never could 
be any amen ! The boy tugged at his mother’s skirt to 
attract her attention and apprise her of this alarming 
fact. She could not understand his perturbation, and 
she subdued him with severity that almost broke his 
heart, but he was subdued, and he quaked in silence till, 
somehow, to his inexpressible relief, the minister said 
amen, and after the hymn and the benediction the small 
boy trudged home in utter bewilderment as to how it 
had come about. 


The Song- and the Singer. 355 

When the voluntary began, the reedy, wheezing tones 
of the ancient organ thrilled the city listener as no noble 
symphony could have done. It was like a sweet but 
forgotten chapter of his life being re-read to him. He 
wondered if he would know the anthem that was to 
follow. No, the music was new, but the uncultivated 
voices of the volunteer choir had all the harshness that 
used to try his patience so bitterly, and that familiar 
harshness now was positively pleasant. This music, 
with all its undeniable crudity, gave him a deeper sense 
of worship than he had known of late in the church 
where he officiated with high-priced solo singers and a 
paid chorus of trained voices. Yet he distinguished one 
voice, just as he had in times past, that was pure in 
quality and correct in intonation. That was Barbara, 
but it was not until there came a soprano solo, and her 
voice stood forth unaffected by the others, that he 
noted a difference. This seemed like a cultivated voice. 
It was the same as of old, but better, larger, and her 
phrasing would have been perfect but for a shortness of 
breath that surprised him. At that, it was good singing, 
and remarkable for its quality of appeal, that quality 
that commonly is given to or withheld from a voice and 
cannot be acquired. 

It never occurred to Ordway that the shortness of 
breath that interfered with the phrasing, and a good 
proportion of the “appeal/’ were due to his presence. 
Barbara saw him from the organ loft. If there had been 
any way to substitute an anthem that had no soprano 


356 


The Song and the Singer. 


solo she would have insisted on a change, but it was 
too late, and sing she had to, as best she could. To her 
it seemed as if her every tone was childishly small, and 
she wanted to sink through the floor when she realized 
that she had next to no control over her breath. What 
a humdrum world it would be if everything in it ap- 
peared to everybody in precisely the same light ! 

After service he met Barbara in the vestibule. She 
was only one of a number who shook his hand and 
welcomed him back to the village. The customary 
gathering and lingering of the congregation there sug- 
gested a reception to him, and there was unexpected 
pleasure in the fact that these plain people, in whom he 
had felt too little interest, as he thought, remembered 
him kindly. Jane was among them, quite stunning in 
a new summer hat and other apparel to match. As it 
was Sunday, she held her demeanor in decorous check, 
but there was a mighty sharp glance in her eyes as she 
greeted him that promised pungent remarks when she 
should not be under the restraints of the Sabbath and 
the meeting house. “Come and see us/’ was the invi- 
tation given heartily by one and all, save Barbara ; but 
Ordway, thanking everybody with cordiality that grew 
upon him, made no promises except to her and Jane. 
He told them that he had.come home tired out, but that 
he would call as soon as he felt that he could keep 
his eyes open and take his share in a conversation. And 
Jane’s eyes snapped, “You’d better!” 

That he meant all he said may be taken for granted. 


The Song and the Singer. 


357 


Nevertheless, nearly the whole week passed before he 
roused himself from the lethargy that was upon him, 
and, quite ashamed of his neglect, strolled across the 
fields to Barbara’s. He found her deep in housework 
that she promptly laid aside without a word of apology 
for her appearance — she had on a skirt that had forgot- 
ten it ever had any best days — and there was brave 
light in her eyes when she said she was glad to see him. 
There was insinuating comfort in the familiar aspect 
of this room, as if his harassed spirit had stepped out 
into a warm summer afternoon when Nature lies idle for 
a bit for the very love of peace. Ordway rested in it 
without any of his tormenting analysis. It was good, 
and he allowed himself the luxury of enjoying what was 
at hand. They talked about various things. Barbara 
naturally made allusion to that great event, her visit to 
New York, and that led to mention of Billy. The tragic 
circumstances of his end were unsuspected in East Wil- 
ton. There were those who whispered that he had 
taken too fast a pace, but no echo of that gossip was to 
be found in Barbara’s talk. She knew how close the 
two young men had been, or thought she did, for no- 
body save themselves could have told the strength of the 
ties that bound them, and she spoke with quiet sympathy 
that Ordway appreciated deeply. Somewhere in the 
conversation, when it had drifted over other topics, Ord- 
way remarked that she sang very well on Sunday. “I 
think your voice has improved,” he said. 

“I’m glad you can say that after such an exhibition,” 


358 The Song and the Singer. 

she responded. “I thought I was doing dreadfully. I 
saw you there, and I was awfully frightened.” 

“Pshaw! Barbara, don’t say that. You must never 
be afraid of me. As a matter of plain fact, I never 
heard you sing so well. You need a little firmer breath 
control” 

“Yes, that is what I am trying to acquire. My 
teacher says that I am improving.” 

“Your teacher! Then you have been studying.” 

“I have been going to Boxford twice a week for 
eight months and taking of the best teacher there. 
That’s Jane’s work.” 

“Good for Jane !” 

“She insisted on it, and I could not see that I ought 
to refuse. She thinks it’s possible that I may be able 
some day to earn something with my voice. It was her 
idea that I ought to be able to fall back on something 
if anything should happen. The house might burn up, 
as she said, or an earthquake might destroy the or- 
chard.” 

“Jane has sense. I presume you enjoy the work.” 

“Oh, very much. I am discouraged sometimes” 

“You needn’t be. I tell you you have improved more 
than I would have supposed possible in so short a time.” 

Barbara’s eyes told her gratitude for this kind as- 
surance. Pier tongue was not trained to the utterance 
of conventional acknowledgments, and she kept silence. 

When Ordway arose to go he noticed a book on the 
table that surprised him. It was one of die most recent 


The Song and the Singer. 359 

publications on music, a semi-historical, semi-philo- 
sophic work. 

“Hello !” said he, ‘ ‘are you dipping into theory, too?” 

Barbara blushed, but he did not notice, for he was 
turning the pages of the book. 

“That is Jane’s,” she answered. “She left it here. 
Now and then she comes in to have me read it to her.” 

“So ! What’s she up to ?” 

“Studying.” 

“Yes, but what the mischief induces her to take up a 
subject like this?” 

Barbara answered his look with a smile. “Jane says,” 
said she, “that there are a lot of things in the world that 
she never can know anything about, and that there are 
some that she can know all about if she applies herself 
to them ; and she doesn’t mean to die till she’s got some- 
where.” 

Both smiled, it was so like Jane. “She says she gets 
along better if she has a pacemaker,” added Barbara. 
“So she brings the books here and we read them to- 
gether when I have time. We’ve been through several 
works in that way. I find it very pleasant.” 

“Funny old Jane,” said Ordway, as he iaid the book 
down. “When she has learned all there is to know 
about music, I wonder what she’ll tackle next?” 


II. 


Where the stream runneth smoothest, the water is 
deepest. — John Lyly. 

Ordway returned to his mother’s house just in time 
for supper, having taken a long ramble through fields 
and woods after leaving Barbara. Shortly before he 
came to the end of his walk he realized that he was 
tranquil. He had not thought of it before. That even- 
ing he went voluntarily to the pianoforte. Till then 
he had not touched the instrument except to please his 
mother when she asked him to play for her. And he 
did not go to bed till a perilously late hour, quite ten 
o’clock, unless the old timepiece in the sitting room 
took a freak of going at double speed that evening. 
During the last hour, when he sat alone, he — one is 
almost tempted to say, confound him ! — he began to ask 
himself questions. Why was he so tranquil ? Why had 
he gone so naturally to the pianoforte? and why a lot 
more. 

It might be said that Ordway had come to himself, 
that he was well again; but there had to be a long 
period of convalescence, for self-distrust is an ailment 
that is not readily cured. The first result of his intro- 

360 


The Song and the Singer. 


361 


spection was an experiment. He waited till Sunday 
afternoon to try it, for then Barbara would not be 
hampered by household duties. His way lay, as usual, 
across the fields. There was a deep ravine to be crossed 
and its steep further side to be climbed before he came in 
sight of her house, which lay but a few rods beyond the 
top. As his head came above the ridge and he saw the 
chimney, and the roof, and the upper story, he heard 
music. He knew her instrument and her voice from 
the first sound, but the tones were faint, and their 
melodic connection was not clear until he had come to 
the stone wall that bounded Mrs. Kendall’s little prop- 
erty. There he halted abruptly and stepped behind a 
bush that screened him from possible view from the 
house. It was one of his own songs that Barbara was 
singing ; one from the cycle that Guarda had “made.” 

He did not listen critically; it did not even occur to 
him to contrast her simple, tentative feeling after the 
expression with Guarda’s conscious method of infusing 
mighty passion into what she sang; but he listened in- 
tently, and uneasiness sat on his brow while his thoughts 
wandered. There was nothing wonderful in that two 
women should sing this published song ; nothing out of 
the common, quite the contrary, in fact, that one of 
them, his friend for years, should chance to be singing 
it in his hearing; but this perfectly natural way of 
looking at the episode did not relieve him. He thought 
of the origin of the song. Guarda had not inspired it. 
Words and music had been on paper years before the 


362 


The Song and the Singer. 


Boxford Festival. It had been selected with judicious 
care by Guarda to be the first in the cycle that they 
contrived out of his independent manuscripts, but as to 
its origin, Barbara had inspired it. Probably she had 
never suspected the fact, but thus it was, and well he re- 
membered how he had taken the song to her for a hear- 
ing before it was half a day old. She had liked it then ; 
he remembered with cutting distinctness how she had 
clapped her hands, and how her eyes shone with admira- 
tion when they had been over it together two or three 
times. And now she was singing it, and that common- 
place fact made such a deep impression on him that he 
lingered behind the bush for not less than half an hour 
after he ceased to hear her voice. 

To such an extent did the singing influence the cur- 
rent of his thoughts that, if he had been anybody but 
Ordway, he would have postponed his experiment and 
gone home ; but he had made his programme, and when 
he was perfectly certain that she would not suspect that 
he had been near, he went on. The experiment did not 
begin at the moment of his arrival ; circumstances were 
unfavorable, and his own prearrangement forbade haste. 
Mrs. Kendall was on the point of setting forth upon 
an errand of charity, and she delayed her departure for 
some minutes of general conversation. During this 
Ordway drifted without apparent design to the piano- 
forte, where, with immense assumption of indifference, 
he went to fumbling the music that lay upon it. If he 
had stumbled upon his song there he could have had 


The Song and the Singer. 


363 


excuse to mention it, but the piece was not in evidence. 
He was all but irritated, for he burned to speak of it, and 
at last he did so. 

“Barbara,” he said, “I heard you singing one of my 
songs a little while ago.” 

“Why ! where were you?” she asked, and colored. 

“At the top of the ravine. It isn’t possible you were 
singing it from memory.” 

“I was doing so, but not from memory of the song as 
you brought it here years ago. I shouldn’t be equal to 
that. I have the music,” and she brought it from a 
cabinet. “Jane bought it,” she added. 

“Jane ! What” and he began to smile. 

“Yes,” said Barbara, smiling also, “Jane said she 
wanted to realize that you’d done something that 
couldn’t provoke her, so she bought the song and made 
me learn it to sing it to her. I know you never take 
offence at Jane’s remarks.” 

“Of course not. What a Jane she is ! Were you 
singing it to her this afternoon?” 

Barbara was the least bit embarrassed. “No,” she 
answered. ‘ I like the piece very much. I always liked 
it. Jane had been here, and I suppose she reminded me 
of it.” 

He laid the music on the instrument. “I tried to call 
on Jane a day or two ago,” he said, “but she was not at 
home.” 

“She spoke of it to-day, and said that she’d consider 
it a call, although you didn’t leave your card, and would 


364 The Song and the Singer. 

return it within the time decreed by East Wilton eti- 
quette.” 

Barbara did not say, for she did not know it, that 
Jane’s first query that afternoon had been concerning 
Ordway. It was addressed privately to Mrs. Kendall, 
who met her in the front yard. “Has that city fellow 
called yet?” she demanded. 

Mrs. Kendall, knowing to whom reference was made, 
replied in the affirmative. Thereupon Jane pressed her 
lips together and her eyes snapped. “He’s been a long 
time getting started,” said she ; “if he doesn’t show some 
sign of sense pretty soon, I shall stir him up.” 

“Don’t do anything rash, Jane,” suggested Mrs. 
Kendall, apprehensively ; “you have the kindest inten- 
tions, but in matters of this kind you can’t drive a man.” 

“Huh!” said Jane. “I know the proverb. ‘You can 
lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.' 
Well, I’ll lead him, and if he don’t drink, I’ll drown him. 
You see !” 

Evidently Jane was up to something. With plenty of 
idle time, is it any wonder that she nourished deep de- 
signs upon the peace of Ordway?- There is a certain in- 
dividual, you know, who keeps an inexhaustible stock 
of mischief for the occupation of persons in Jane’s cir- 
cumstances. 

“Barbara,” said Ordway, “let’s go out to the orchard.” 

This was his experiment. For as far back as he could 
remember it seemed to him that his happiest, most con- 


The Song and the Singer. 


365 


tented hours had been spent with her under the apple 
trees. The meeting house, her home, his own home, the 
village generally had been flooding him with remi- 
niscences, and each detail had contributed its share to 
restoring an atmosphere that had been forgotten. 
There was at least tranquility in this atmosphere. It 
might be that it held something deeper still for him. 
He would observe what influence there might be in a 
stroll around the orchard. 

If he had been studying her instead of, or as well as, 
himself, he could not have failed to observe that she re- 
ceived the suggestion reluctantly. There was a moment 
of unmistakable hesitation on her part, but she went 
with him. He, seeking for impressions, was silent. 
She, embarrassed, must needs set talk to going, and she 
took not only the topic that lay closest at hand, but, per- 
haps, in her mind, it was one that was most certain to 
stimulate her courage by the very necessity of facing it 
bravely. 

“I should like to hear Guarda sing that song,’ , she 
said. “I suppose you have heard her. The title page 
says, ‘Sung by Guarda/ and I have often thought how 
beautifully she must do it.” 

“Guarda is a great singer,” said Ordway. 

There was a moment of silence. Perhaps she had 
anticipated that mention of Guarda would incite him 
to enthusiastic if not fervent comment, and his tone 
seemed as cold as it was evidently restrained. It was 
the latter quality that gave her courage to proceed along 


366 


The Song and the Singer. 


the same line. “Herbert,” she said, “do you remember 
what I said as the train was leaving New York?” 

“I couldn’t possibly forget it,” he told her, averting 
his eyes. 

“I have been afraid that I presumed too much,” she 
went on, steadily, “but if we are to be friends I do feel 
that I should be able to speak of things that are of the 
greatest importance to you. I wish you could know 
that I have thought about you both so many times. It 
has seemed so ideal that two persons of such great gifts 
in the same art ” 

“Barbara!” he cried, sharply, unable to repress him- 
self longer. “God knows I want you to be my friend 
and to speak to me as a friend may, but that one subject 
must be ignored.” 

“I am sorry,” she faltered, and her distress wavered in 
the eyes into which now he looked unreservedly. 

“Listen,” said he, gently. “We won’t have any pos- 
sibility of misunderstanding. It is months since I have 
seen Guarda. We parted one day in a manner of my 
own seeking. It is impossible that we should ever meet 
again, and, Barbara, I hope devoutly that we never 
may.” 

All this was astonishing and dark to her ; it was tragic, 
too ; for though he spoke with Spartan steadiness, the 
note of suffering in his voice was as clear as a bell. 
Tears of purest sympathy came welling to her eyes, and 
there was an impulsive movement of her hands that he 
did not observe, for, instead of clasping his in the old, 


The Song and the Singer. 


367 


frank way, they were hastily folded, and one presently 
brushed away the tears.-# “I am so sorry, Herbert,” she 
whispered, for her throat rebelled at any louder utter- 
ance. 

“You needn’t be,” he responded, shortly, and yet he 
set his teeth. “I never was so sure of anything as that 
that was for the best. Let’s go on.” 

And on they went, once around the orchard and back 
to the house, he forcing the conversation to matters of 
no real interest to either of them, and as soon as he 
could well do so, he went home. If the experiment had 
been designed as a quest for greater tranquillity, it 
proved a dismal failure. The wreckage of past storms 
had been disturbed. Loosened from the sands that time 
had thinly covered over them, they beat against the 
walls of his heart with memories of their former vio- 
lence. And yet, out of it all, and above the clamor, 
there was one sweet note of sympathy that he could not 
fail to hear, and that had its merciful influence in quell- 
ing this aftermath of tempest. 


TIT. 


A man may well bring a horse to the water, 

But he cannot make him drink without he will. 

— John Heywood. 

“Is that ridiculous son of yours at home ?” 

Jane had come to make her threatened call, and it was 
thus that she announced herself to Mrs. Ordway. The 
ridiculous son heard from the sitting room, and pre- 
pared to extract what amusement he could out of ban- 
tering Jane concerning her extraordinary devotion to 
musical art. He never had been able to take her seri- 
ously, which was the way with all in East Wilton save 
the Kendalls. 

“Have you come for a lesson in counterpoint ?” he 
asked, when she came in with his mother. 

“No, siree !” she responded, energetically ; “I’ll give 
lessons rather than take them,” but the strenuous effort 
she made to appear scornfully composed showed that 
his shot had told. While his mother was present they 
exchanged thrust and parry with considerable gusto, 
but when Mrs. Ordway excused herself to attend to the 
baking, that had come to a critical stage, Jane’s man- 
ner changed. “You haven’t been well,” she said. 

“I deny that,” he replied. “Lazy, that’s all.” 

388 


The Song and the Singer. 369 

“No,” and she shook her head. “I understand. The 
death of Billy Jameson must have been a terrible blow 
to you. I never saw such friends as you two boys were. 
I have been deeply sorry for you, Herbert, and wanted 
to say something about it, for I don’t think most people 
round here realize how close he was to you.” 

The customary acidity in Jane’s voice, which, by the 
way, I more than half believe was affected, was conspicu- 
ous by its absence. If you had been in an adjoining 
room, or if you hadn’t known her, you would have said 
that her tone was gentleness itself. 

“Why! thank you, Jane,” stammered Ordway, com- 
pletely taken aback. 

“You needn’t say anything,” she interrupted. “I 
know how hard it is to speak, and sometimes I think 
sympathy might as well be left unsaid. Words don’t 
do it justice, you know. We go on year after year re- 
peating the same dreary commonplaces to persons who 
are in affliction, until I imagine we say them for our own 
sakes and not for theirs. But I’ve got to say some- 
thing about Billy. I thought a great deal of him. 
There are a few small, narrow minded persons round 
here who take delight in saying mean things about him. 
They say he was dissipated. I wish you could hear me 
stand up for him. If they were as generous and noble 
as Billy Jameson was they could say their prayers with 
better grace. I tell ’em so.” 

She had returned to her energetic, aggressive way of 
speaking before she was done. It was as if she felt 


370 The Song and the Singer. 

shame that she had departed from it for one tender in- 
stant. Ordway got up and shook her hand. 

“Jane,” said he, “I could fall in love with you for what 
you say and think about .Billy — that is, if I was capable 
of love.” 

“Ha!” said she, as he dropped her hand and stood 
back to her at a window, “it’s too bad about you.” 

All her sarcasm had returned, and it was all concen- 
trated in her brief remark. 

“Yes,” he admitted, gravely, “it is.” 

She compressed her lips, stared at his back and 
fidgeted. He sat down again presently. “There’s a 
work on the scientific basis of music,” he began, but she 
cut in disdainfully : 

“I didn’t come here to talk music. I’m in a peck of 
trouble.” 

“So? What's the matter?” 

“It’s about my money.” 

“I hope investments haven’t gone wrong.” 

“Investments ! la, no. It’s distributed in savings 
banks, and every one of them is in an exasperatingly 
prosperous condition. I can’t spend my interest.” 

“Then it’s a question of investing the surplus, is it? 
I’m no authority on finance ” 

“I didn’t say you were. I don’t want to invest my 
surplus. It would be absurd to think of it. An old 
maid going into financial business, pooh ! But some- 
thing’s got to be done. Here in East Wilton I can get 
everything I want and more, too, on half my interest. 


The Song and the Singer. 371 

To live up to my income I should have to go somewhere 
else where life is conducted on a grander scale. Then 
I shouldn’t have enough. I don’t want to leave East 
Wilton. I’m satisfied here.” 

‘‘Painful predicament,” said Ordway. “You’re grow- 
ing richer all the time, and can’t help it.” 

“I mean to help it if circumstances come around in a 
certain way.” She stopped, pressed her lips and stared 
thoughtfully at Ordway. He was smiling his amuse- 
ment. Twice, yea, three times, did Jane catch her breath 
and open her lips, and three times did something advise 
her emphatically to hold her peace and be patient. So 
she said nothing. Wise, funny old Jane ! 

“Well,” said he, quizzically, “you’ll have to embark in 
something of a philanthropic nature.” 

“For instance?” she demanded. 

“What would you say to an old maids’ home ?” 

“The very thing !” she cried. “I’ve been planning just 
such an institution. I mean to make Barbara Kendall 
the manager of it.” 

“She’d make a good one.” 

Jane stared hard at him. How serious was he? She 
never quite knew how to distinguish between Ordway’s 
rather ponderous humor and his natural gravity. At 
present she was in so deep doubt as to what she ought 
to say that her puzzlement roused her to exasperation. 
So, what she did say was, “Herbert Ordway, I think 
you’re a natural born idiot,” 


37^ The Song and the Singer. 

“Cling to that, Jane,” he responded, without a smile ; 
“it’s a great discovery.” 

“Do you mean that you think it’s true ?” 

“Yes, seriously.” 

“Then there’s hope for you!” and she flounced out 
without another word. 

At the dinner table an hour or so afterward, Ordway 
began suddenly to chuckle with vast amusement. His 
mother was mystified. “What are you laughing at?” 
she asked. 

“The point of a joke has just reached me,” he 
answered, “that was due an hour ago. With my usual 
density I’ve only just begun to see it,” and he shook 
with mirth. 

“Do tell me, Herbert. I’d like to laugh, too.” 

It had dawned upon him that Jane was trying to spur 
him to make love to Barbara ! That had been the -secret 
of her errand, and even she was not bold enough to ap- 
proach the subject directly. She had talked absurdities 
about money to fill in the time, and at last had retreated 
as if convinced that she had not finesse enough for her 
delicate undertaking. What a comical, meddlesome, 
but well meaning Jane ! His face was suffused with 
color as he chuckled and wiped his eyes. 

“Come, Herbert !” cried Mrs. Ordway, laughing from 
the infection, “what is it? I want to know the joke.” 

“Mother,” he answered, and through the tears of his 
laughter his eyes were dreamy, “I shouldn’t wonder if 
I would tell you some time. Honestly, I almost hope I 


The Song and the Singer. 373 

shall,” and that was all the satisfaction she had from 
him. 

They have not observed Ordway closely who imagine 
that on the heels of this confession came his declara- 
tion to Barbara. Self-distrust was waging still a stub- 
born battle for control of his actions, but the conclusions 
indicated heretofore were beginning to arrive. With 
them came perhaps the most significant symptom of his 
complete convalescence, an alarming doubt as to Bar- 
bara herself. Was it possible that she could love him 
after these years of neglect and heart wandering? That 
she was sincerely and affectionately his friend admitted 
of no question, but love was another matter; that she 
would give her heart and possibilities of happiness into 
his keeping — really, it was most alarming to think that 
she would be quite sensible if she declined ! It became 
such a distressing possibility that at last it admitted of 
no longer doubt, and he set off across the fields to find 
out about it. 

Barbara met him at the door, a world of trouble in 
her eyes. 

'‘We’re awfully busy,” she said, embarrassed to the 
degree of tremulousness. 

“Bother!” said he, “can’t you come for a walk?” 

Jane’s voice came from somewhere within. “Go away, 
little boy,” it said ; “we don’t want anything to-day.” 

“Tell Jane to mind her own affairs,” he suggested in 
a low tone. “Make her do your work for you.” 

“Oh ! I cannot, really,” began Barbara, and you might 


374 


The Song and the Singer. 


have thought she was agitated. Jane came striding to 
her support. The old maid put her hands on the young 
maid’s shoulders and wheeled her about. “Run, now,” 
she said, “before it burns,” and Barbara ran. There 
wasn’t anything burning except her own tender heart, 
and the tears were flowing in vain attempt to quench 
the flames, but Ordway didn’t know. He stood frown- 
ing in the most savage way at Jane, who placed her 
arms akimbo and blocked the doorway with acidulous 
serenity. “Nice day,” said she. 

“When is all this fury of work going to be finished?” 
he asked with no pains to disguise the offence he had 
taken at her manner. 

“Oh, to-morrow,” she answered cheerfully. “Come 
down to-morrow afternoon. It’ll be quiet then and I’ll 
be out of the way. A day more or less can be nothing 
to you. It’s a good deal to us.” 

He made no more talk about it, but went home, dis- 
pleased, and not a little anxious. His programme had 
been upset, and that is a calamity to a steady-going 
man. On the next day he could hardly wait till after- 
noon, for his anxiety had grown with his reflections 
upon Barbara’s unusual manner. He had known her 
to be busy in times past, too busy to talk -with him ; but 
on such occasions she had had*him in, and he had played 
the pianoforte, or read until she was free. Yesterday 
she had not even suggested that he might wait. So he 
was in what Jane doubtless would have called a proper 
frame of mind when mid afternoon came and he was 


The Song and the Singer. 


375 


sure from his knowledge of the Kendalls’ routine that 
Barbara would be comparatively idle. Down he went, 
determined that this time no Jane should stand long 
in his way. There was no sound of music or work from 
the house as he climbed the steep side of the ravine. It 
was very quiet, but he did not realize how quiet until 
he had knocked twice at the side door and nobody had 
answered. Then he observed that the shades were 
drawn down at the windows. What could be the mean- 
ing of it? 

As he stood there and asked this question of the 
locked door a weight fell upon his heart, and it bore 
down so hard and deep that self-distrust, so far as it 
applied to the permanency of his affections, was buried 
beneath it forever. And while he stood there in a maze 
of painful wondering, a certain wily old maid sat se- 
reinely within the grape arbor, not a dozen feet away, 
compressing her lips into a contented smile. She had 
a book in her hand that had served to while away the 
time since noon, and it wasn’t a treatise on the theory 
or history of music, either, but one of the most senti- 
mental love stories known to literature. Such a Jane ! 
“I’ve had one disastrous love affair, and one highly suc- 
cessful one,” she said, but that was at a somewhat later 
date, and we are leaping a bit too fast in hinting at the 
second in her catalogue. 

Ordway did not return across the fields. He went 
out to the road and marched up to Jane’s house. Of 
course she was not at home, but he saw her, book in 


376 The Song and the Singer. 

hand, idling tranquilly along when he went out again at 
the gate. He went down to meet her. 

“Where’s Barbara?” said he. 

Jane raised her brows in a tremendous affectation of 
surprise. “Isn’t she at home?” she asked. 

“You know she isn’t, Jane. You know where she has 
gone. Tell me.” 

“What do you want to know for?” 

“I’ll tell Barbara that.” 

She looked at him with anxiety that was wholly un- 
affected. “I wonder if I ought?” she mused. “Bar- 
bara would take my head off ” 

“I’ll see that you get it back again. Come, Jane ! 
I’ve got to know.” 

She told him, naming a modest summer resort not 
fifty miles distant. He did not pause to inquire why she 
had gone, but hurried home and packed for a journey. 
There was no train from East Wilton before the fol- 
lowing morning, but there was one from a neighboring 
town that evening. He had himself driven across coun- 
try and caught it. The evening was yet young when he 
arrived at Barbara’s hiding place. 

He saw her seated at the end of a veranda, as remote 
as possible from other guests of the house. Even her 
mother was not with her. Presently he stood before 
her, and she arose, stifling a startled cry. 

“Barbara,” said he, “I’ve come for the walk we didn’t 
take vesterdav.” 



“Do you think you can love me?” 


See page 377 







The Song and the Singer. 377 

“I was afraid — I thought you would come,” she stam- 
mered. 

“Afraid?’ he echoed; “you might have known you 
could not escape me.” 

They walked slowly away from the chattering ve- 
randa, and when they heard only their own voices above 
the crackling chorus of crickets all around them, he 
told her of the* battle that had been waging in his heart. 
He did not say what caused the strife, or go into ma- 
terial details, but he told her how he had distrusted 
his stability, and had come at last not merely to believe 
in, but to know himself, and that his love for her was 
one of the fixtures of his life. “And I want to know 
about you, Barbara,” he concluded. “Do you think 
you can love me?” 

“Herbert,” she answered, “I have always loved you.” 

To him the serene happiness of that moment, wholly 
free from delirious ecstasy, was the most wonderful 
experience he had ever known. “Why, then,” he 
asked, “should you have been afraid I would follow 
you ?” 

Then, faltering, laughing a little at times, she told 
him how her mind had been quite made up that she 
was to be his friend, and friend only, and how the revela- 
tion that he and Guarda were not to be married gave 
her a dreadful shock, largely and firstly from sympathy 
for him, but partly, as she thought it over, on her own 
account ; for he had found her studying music ; she knew 
that she simply could not conceal her affection from 


37 « 


The Song and the Singer. 


him, and she had a dreadful fear that he would suspect 
her of playing for him by assuming an interest in his 
art. And, thinking, and taxing her conscience, a pro- 
found suspicion of dear old Jane had arisen in her mind. 
Jane had studiously stimulated her musical work ; Jane 
had persistently kept her thoughts upon Ordway, buy- 
ing his songs and forever alluding to him. She felt 
that Jane had put her in a most embarrassing position, 
and she taxed Jane with her accusation. 

“Well, dear,” said Jane, “if you see it in that light, 
why not keep away from him?” 

“But I can’t keep him from calling here,” said Bar- 
bara. 

“Then run away,” and Jane had suggested that she 
go with her mother to this place and remain till the 
end of Ordway ’s vacation. 

“And she promised, oh ! so faithfully,” concluded Bar- 
'S bara, “that she wouldn’t give you the least hint as to 
where we were.” 

“I see,” said Ordway, solemnly. “Jane has put up 
a job on us.” 

“Yes,” ruefully, but not resentfully. 

Ordway caught her in his arms and laughed, while 
he kissed her, as he had not laughed since before the 
Boxford Festival. “I think we shall have to forgive 
her,” he said. “I wonder if it really enters her head that 
she spurred me on? Why, I went to your house yes- 
terday to have just this talk! I hoped it might be in 


The Song and the Singer. 


379 


the orchard where we had a talk some years ago that 
wasn’t so satisfactory.” 

“I felt that it was what you came for,” she responded, 
“and I wanted so dreadfully to listen, and was afraid to, 
and we were half packed, and Jane was there ” 

“And,” said Ordway, “she had to work out her 
scheme or not be content. I can understand Jane in 
that.” 

“But, Herbert, do you forgive me for my cruelty of 
that other time ? I didn’t mean to be cruel ; I was try- 
ing to be wise for both of us.” 

“And you were wise, Barbara.” 

“But I asked if you would give up your music for me.” 

“And I hadn’t the courage to say no.” 

“Was that it?” 

“Wholly. I was weak, sensitive, egotistic ” 

She put her hand over his lips. “You shall not say 
such things of yourself,” she said. “Shall I tell you 
that I wanted you to say no?” 

“Indeed ! and what would have been your response to 
that?” 

“I should have given myself to you without reserve.” 

“Well!” said Ordway, with a mighty gasp, “well! I 
wish I had had the courage of my convictions then as 
I have now.” 


IV. 

Man’s best possession is a sympathetic wife. 

— Euripides. 

Under this heading it seems superfluous to add a 
word, the implication being all that could be desired, 
but for form’s sake, and two or three historical details, 
it will be well to make a chapter of it. Jane insisted that 
she did it. Nothing, assurance or mockery, would per- 
suade her that she had not managed Barbara’s court- 
ship. “What did I take her to New York for?” she 
cried. 

“I had an idea you wanted to see the town,” sug- 
gested Ordway, and that shot was the nearest to over- 
coming her ; but she waved it aside, and she maintains 
to this day that if she hadn’t contrived matters her sec- 
ond love affair never would have terminated success- 
fully. 

“You see, my dears,” she says to her confidants, 
“Herbert is such a — such an Ordway, you know, that 
if I hadn’t made him think that Barbara was in danger 
of being lost to him, he never would have got up fire\ 
enough to pop the question.” 

380 . 


The Song and the Singer. 381 

Her wedding gift to Barbara, with a letter that ac- 
companied it, explained some things. 

“My dear,” she wrote, “as I have said repeatedly, it 
is absurd that a useless old maid should have twice as 
much money as she needs. I could give to the church, 
and it would be spent in paint, whereas I love the 
smoke-marked window sills, the worn edges of the 
pews, and the weather beaten clapboards. I could give 
to a mission, and it would eventually come to heathen 
who don’t appreciate the necessity and glory of Easter 
bonnets. I prefer to establish an old lady’s home. I 
told that man of yours about it once, but he is such a 
donkey that he wouldn’t understand. I used the word 
lady in the singular, he in the plural, even when I told 
him I meant to make you the manager. This money, 
that I can’t use, my dear girl, is for the home of the 
peaceful, contented old lady that I hope you will be- 
come long after I have gone to rest. I want you to 
do with it exactly what you wish, and if it will make 
you happy to spend every cent of it on that man, do so. 
He may tell you a thousand times a day that it is his 
one desire to make you happy. Believe him, dear child, 
and make him see that you believe, but don’t forget that 
there is one other who ventures to assert that his de- 
sire for your happiness is no greater than hers. That 
one is your own, crusty, meddlesome 

“JANE.” 

The envelope enclosed ten one-thousand dollar bills. 
Wasn’t that like Jane? but, of course, you can tell only 


382 


The Song and the Singer. 


from what little has been set down about her here. We, 
who have the high privilege of friendship with Jane, 
simply nodded and smiled when we heard of her letter 
and its enclosure, and were not in the least surprised. 
A slight exception should be made of Ordway. He was 
astonished, but not to such an extent that he could not 
do the right thing. He went to Jane to thank her in 
behalf of his wife. 

“Jane,” said he, “the donkey is deeply appreciative, 
but he doesn’t know exactly how to express himself.” 

“There’s just one way,” said she, seriously. 

“What is it?” and he expected a kindly lecture on 
his duty to Barbara. 

“Bray,” said Jane. 


You may never have heard Guarda, and it is hardly 
likely that you will have that privilege ; but she still 
sings. It is not under the old name. For some reason 
best known to her, she adopted another stage name 
after that American season, and for a time it was sup- 
posed that she had retired on her comfortable fortune., 
But, if you care to know, she went to a country across 
the water, made a great success, and stays there, ap- 
pearing with almost clock-like regularity in festivals and 
grand concerts, and in opera during the season. Time 
and again she has been besought by impresarios to 
come to America, but she declines on the hardly credible 
ground that she cannot endure the deathly qualms of 
travel at sea. It is a small detail, but it may interest 


The Song and the Singer. 


383 


you to know that one who has visited her reports that 
a certain French maid is no longer with her. It is un- 
derstood that the maid received her walking papers in 
New York shortly after making a false report about a 
letter she had carried for her mistress. 

We may now say literally fare well to Herbert Ord- 
way. This has been but a view of his beginnings, the 
whole, with all its divisions and subdivisions, being no 
more than the prelude to his real life. It is unthink- 
able that such a nature would not profit in greater 
strength from such experiences as were his, and that is 
the main thing. Whether he proves to be a genius is 
of no vital consequence, for the world has greater need 
of pure lives than it has of masterpieces. So, then, we 
may leave his future to himself and his devoted wife with 
every confidence that whether or not he justifies his 
friends’ hopes for his distinction as a composer, it will 
be normal, properly rounded, and happy — happy in pure 
love and unremitting labor in the field of that art that 
has to do more than any other with lofty ideality. 




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nection with the smart set. Her attempts 
to disguise the true state of affairs from her 
out-of-town friends are laughable ; but the 
fun becomes tinged with pathos when she 
borrows a furnished mansion for an evening, 
and a rich relative, invited to dine with 
her, uncloaks the pitiable fraud .... 

The promising boy and the fond patroness 
are the chief characters in another brilliant 
character study in “Queer People.” . . . 

i2mo., Cloth. Price, $1.00. 


STREET AND SMITH, New York and London 



EERIE TALES OF “CHINATOWN.” 


Bits of.... 
Broken China 

By WILLIAM E. S. FALES 


A collection of captivating novelettes deal- 
ing with life in New York’s “Chinatown.” 

The struggles and ambitions of the China- 
man in America, his loves and jealousies, 
his hopes and fears, his sorrows, his joys, 
these are the materials on which Mr. Fales 

has built his book 

It is a new field , and all the more inter- 
esting on that account. The author has 
made a life study of his subject ; and no one 
is better qualified than he to present a picture 
of this romantic corner of New York where 

lives the exiled Chinaman 

“Bits of Broken China” is undoubtedly 
one of the most delightful volumes for lighter 
reading published this season 

Bound in cloth. Gold top. Fully Illustrated 

Price, 75 Cents. 


STREET AND SMITH, New York and London 


THE MOST POPULAR OF GAMES. 


PING PONG 

AND 

HOW TO PLAY IT 

By M. G. RITCHIE, of the International Games Club, 
and ARNOLD Parker, Winner of the Queen’s 
Hall Ping Pong Tournament. 

Edited for American Players 
by WALTER H. BRONSON, 

Ping Pong Expert 


This is an entirely new work on this 
popular game, brought down to date, and 
containing many valuable suggestions on 
new strokes and new positions. It is illus- 
trated with many diagrams and is adapted 
for the expert as well as the beginner. A 
book every American player of this game 
should possess 

i8mo., Silk Cloth. Price, 50 cents. 


STREET AND SMITH, New York and London 


1 



THE GAME OF THE HOUR. 


ABC OF BRIDGE 

By ELEANOR A. TENNANT. 


Front the Brooklyn Eagle: 

“Bridge is not yet so well known as whist, 
but an hour’s study of this clever little book 
ought to be enough to enable anyone to play 
with moderate success. It is written mainly 
for the instruction of amateurs, but, in addi- 
tion, the author, who is herself an expert, 
has given numerous hints that will be valu- 
able to the most advanced player. ”... 

From the Dramatic Mirror : 

“The game is explained in simple fashion 
— which is indeed an achievement, consider- 
ing its complications.” 

From the St. Louis Globe-Democrat : 

“The little volume is just what it pretends 
to be — an elementary treatise on the subject, 
and is not rendered top-heavy, by overload- 
ing of extraneous matter. It will take one 
about an hour to read it, and he will then 
know how the game is played.” ... . 

In cloth. Gold top. Illustrated with diagrams. 

Price, 75 Cents. 

STREET AND SMITH, New York and London 











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